When he opened his eyes again, a minute later, he was lying, weak, shaken, and gasping, just inside the fence, his swimming head supported on the knee of Professor White. About him excited yet kindly faces looked down, while on the sidewalk the trembling horses were being unharnessed from the carriage. He strove to sit up, but the professor restrained him.
“Hurt, Weatherby?” he asked.
Jack stretched himself carefully, shook his head, and struggled into a sitting posture.
“No,” he gasped, “all right; breath—knocked out—that’s all.”
“Well, sit still a minute.” Jack obeyed, and closed his eyes. About him were low voices and whispers, and his name being repeated over and over. Then he became aware of a sudden commotion, and opened his eyes to see Anthony pushing his way through the ring.
“I found him,” he gasped. “He’s coming right over. How is he?” He dropped to his knees at Jack’s side, sending an anxious glance at the professor.
“Nothing broken; just out of breath.”
Anthony seized Jack’s hand and held it tightly, his broad mouth working yet unable to voice his words. Jack grinned up into his face.
“You’re a sight, Anthony,” he said. “You’ve gone and lost your specs. Help me up.” The professor nodded. Anthony seized him about the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. Jack tried his legs tentatively, and found them apparently sound. Then he turned to Anthony.
“Showell?” he asked anxiously.