“How about the label, Kid?”
Pee-wee had not time to answer this poser for along the road came the ambulance, pell-mell. Surely, the boys thought, Artie could not have spoken of Blythe’s identity over the ’phone, yet following the ambulance came the touring car of Bridgeboro’s police department with the chief in it, the policeman chauffeur, a couple of other men, and county detective Ferrett. A couple of other cars, too, came lagging behind, in deference to the speed laws, doubtless lured thither by the sonorous gong of the ambulance and the imposing official display.
Pretty soon Artie came along scout pace. The scene of the pleasant little scout camp was presently overrun by aimless sojourners in private cars, who gathered about awaiting the actions of the high and mighty.
The surgeon in spotless white examined Blythe and said little. When one of the scouts ventured to ask him if the injuries would prove fatal he said, “Not necessarily.”
“Who is this fellow anyway?” the Bridgeboro chief asked.
“He’s a fellow that’s hurt,” Doc Carson answered rather dryly.
“Belong around here?”
“He was working here and we were helping him,” Westy said.
“What’s his name?”
“Blythe.”