"Wow," said Troutman.
"Come on back," said Schley, "we don't count."
Stover laughed and drove on. The party had now passed the point of interest. He had no desire for a chance meeting that would require explanations, but he volunteered no advice, not caring to appear prudish in the company of such men of the world.
They were in the open country, the outskirts of New Haven just left behind. For some time Fanny Le Roy had been silent, pressing her hand against her side, frowning. All at once a cry was wrung from her. The carriage stopped. All turned in alarm to where the girl, her teeth compressed, clutching at her side, was lying back against the seat, writhing in agony.
Troutman swore under his breath.
"A devil of a mess!"
They descended hurriedly and laid the girl on the grass, where her agony continued increasingly. Schley and Troutman were whispering apart. The other girl, hysterically bending over her companion, mopped her face with a useless handkerchief, crying:
"She's got a fit; she's got a fit!"
"I say it's appendicitis or gripes," said Troutman, coming over to Stover. His face was colorless, and he spoke the words nervously. "The deuce of a fix Chris has got us into!"
"Come, we've got to get her back," said Stover, realizing the gravity of the situation. He went abruptly to the girl and spoke with quick authority. "Now stop crying; I want you to get hold of yourself. Here Schley, lend a hand; you and Troutman get her back into the carriage. Do it quickly."