“Hm, let’s see.” Mike, the experienced police officer, who had examined a thousand cases, living and dead, turned Johnny over carefully.
“Lot of blood,” he muttered. “Hit on the head. May come round. Doctor can tell. Bring some water.”
The operator brought a pitcher of water. Mike bathed Johnny’s forehead, then began washing away the blood. Johnny had just begun to stir a bit when the doctor arrived.
A full five minutes the doctor remained bent over the prostrate form.
“I hope he’s going to come out of it,” Drew said to a husky, grizzle-haired Irish sergeant named Herman McCarthey. “He’s a game kid, and he’s got right ideas. He’ll go far. This was his first night.”
At the end of that tense five minutes Johnny sat up unsteadily.
“He’s reviving,” said the doctor. “Let’s have some air.”
Windows were thrown up. Johnny opened his eyes and looked about him.
“Wha—where am I?” he half whispered.
“Right where you were,” Drew chuckled. He was pleased to see the boy coming round so soon.