“Yes, that’s the house, or what’s left of it,” explained the policeman. “Lucky we weren’t nearer. Talk about your fireworks! Say, how are you feelin’, kid?”
“Kinda woozy, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it—”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nuthin’—except that when you and I went up in the air, you dove headfirst into me stomach—and it sure does feel lousy!”
“Gee, that’s too bad—” Bill sympathized. “I certainly hope I didn’t dent your pretty belt buckle with my teeth—or what’s left of them! You were toting me, I take it?”
“Yeah. I was runnin’ wid you over my shoulder when the blast come.”
“And—er—woke me up.”
“You said it. I’ll bet that head o’ yourn rammed into me belt buckle a good eight inches! The inside o’ me backbone feels black an’ blue.”
They got to their feet. Bill’s head, though aching, was now perfectly clear. He saw that they stood in the knee-high grass of the field. Two cars were approaching along the drive. Several groups of men were spread out over the field. He recognized Osceola, carrying Deborah in his arms. Beside him walked Mr. Dixon. They were making for the motor cars.