The road was not in good condition, and the three men had not examined the car before engaging it for this hard trip, therefore they were not aware that the tires were badly worn. As the road became rock and rutty, however, Mr. Dalken spoke to his companions.
“Seems to me the tires are not as hard as they might be,” said he.
“The one on my side, rear, feels as though it were flat, or about to be so,” added Mr. Fuzzier.
Mr. Alexander opened the door to have a backward glance at the doubtful tire. At the time he opened the door the car was just running through a mass of gravel-covered road, and the wheels flung the pebbles up with great force. One exceptionally large stone was whirled and thrown backwards as from a sling-shot. It struck Mr. Alexander square between the eyes with such velocity that he crumpled back in the automobile as though shot. The only sound he made was a grunt as he fell.
“Great Scott! What’s the matter, Alex.?” cried Mr. Fuzzier, who sat on that side of the car. But he received no reply. “Not a drop of anything on hand to revive him!” muttered Mr. Dalken, banging upon the glass in front to attract the chauffeur’s attention.
The driver turned to see what was wanted of him, and at that moment the car swerved the fraction of an inch. But that fraction was quite enough to cause the wheels on one side to run into a deep rut. This hard jolt sent all three men together in a heap. Poor Mr. Alexander happened to be underneath, and Mr. Fuzzier on top. Mr. Dalken, being between both, received no hurt, but Mr. Fuzzier struck his head against the closed door, and soon a great swelling rose there and closed his left eye. Mr. Alexander, being unconscious, could not swear or complain against his tough luck of being the under one.
Mr. Dalken now lost all patience, because of fear of what had happened to his companion and with this last mishap. He discovered then, that he had not forgotten how to curse politely, and, once started, it seemed as though he would never stop. Even Mr. Fuzzier, with his head aching and throbbing like mad, and deeply concerned as he was about Mr. Alexander, had to laugh.
The chauffeur sprang from his seat and rushed to that side of the car which was down in the rut. Instead of coming to the help of his passengers, he began to look around for a visible means of getting the wheels up out of the mire.
“You dolt! come here, won’t you?” shouted Mr. Dalken.
“Got anything we could use to help restore consciousness to this man?” demanded Mr. Fuzzier, shaking a fist at the driver.