“You’re hurt!”
“I—I guess it’s broken,” said the boy, touching the arm that hung limp at his side.
“But why—”
“I—I thought he’d hurt you, and I—I couldn’t—”
“You did it for me! You—” Florence was beginning to understand, or at least to wonder. Bud had done this—Bud, of all persons. Kin of her bitterest enemy, the boy whose choicest possession she had destroyed! And how had he come to be here at that moment? Her head was in a whirl.
“There’s right smart of a rock right outside the door,” the boy grinned. “I were a watchin’ from up there an’ when I seed him grab yore arm I just naturally jumped. I reckon hit were to far.”
“But if your arm is broken, it must be set.”
“Yes’m, I reckon.”
At that moment there was a sound of shuffling feet at the door. Turning about, Florence found herself staring into the face of a man, a face she recognized instantly. The beady eyes, hooked nose, unshaven chin—there could be no mistaking him. It was he who had twice frightened Marion and at one time all but driven little Hallie into hysterics.
“What more could happen in one crowded night?” she asked herself, deep in despair.