An icy chill swept through Dawson, and he swallowed hard. It was a second or two before he could speak.
"Those sealed envelopes, I bet!" he whispered. "We got rid of them just in time. But, my gosh, Freddy! Who—"
Dawson let the thought go unspoken because it seemed so utterly incredible.
"Yes, who?" Freddy Farmer echoed, and gave a little shrug of his shoulders. "Somebody, that's certain. Gosh, he came close to killing us. When I came to and saw you with your ripped tunic pulled up over your head and your face pushed down into the dirt, I thought sure you were a goner. Look, Dave, take off your helmet, if it doesn't hurt too much. I want to see if it's more than just a bump. If your scalp's been cut, I can patch it from this pocket Red Cross kit I carry."
But Dawson had already explored under his helmet with very gentle fingertips. He had two bumps side by side, not over an inch above a point where two such blows would undoubtedly have paralyzed him for life, if not killed him instantly. As it was, there were just the two bumps and no wet or caked blood.
"Just bumps, Freddy," he said, and forced a chuckle. "A couple of pips, but you know me, Old Iron Head. How about you, though?"
"I'm lucky," Freddy said, and tried to match Dawson's forced gaiety. "Just one lump, but I'm sure the old noggin will ache for months. We'd better bear this in mind, Dave. We can't stand another of these attacks."
"Says which?" Dawson mumbled.
"We couldn't possibly be that lucky twice," the English youth explained. "Blast this whole business, though! I don't like things I don't understand. I definitely don't!"
Dave Dawson didn't make any comment on that. He got slowly to his feet, steeled himself while a dizziness swept through his head, and then began a methodical search of his uniform pockets. Watching him, Freddy Farmer waited until he had inspected their contents and had put them back.