“Where is Hiram?” he breathed anxiously. Then Dave called his chum’s name, steadied himself, and rubbed clear his cinder-filled eyes.
“Had a fall—stumbled right over your partner,” panted the farmer, and he emerged from the blazing space with unsteady feet.
“Why, what’s this?” cried Dave.
The farmer was half-carrying, half-dragging a human form. He flopped to the ground himself overcome, as he dropped his burden.
“Hiram!” exclaimed the young aviator, recognizing his senseless assistant.
“Lucky I found him,” panted the farmer. “He lay on the ground the way he is now. My feet hit him, and I took a header. If I hadn’t come across him, it would have been all day for him.”
Dave was now kneeling at the side of his unconscious chum. He lifted Hiram’s head. A damp spot met his hand. Then he discovered a long scalp wound, bleeding profusely. The farmer stood dumbly viewing the destruction going on. He was of a philosophical turn, it seemed, for finally shrugging his shoulders resignedly he observed:
“Lucky most of it is poor swamp hay. It’s got to go, I see that. Let it burn out, we can’t save any of it, and I reckon it won’t reach the sheds. Hurt bad?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Dave, but anxiously. “There’s a cut in the back of his head.”
“Mebbe he fell against one of the big stone weights used for holding down the hay. See here, he’s the first to think of. We must get him to the house.”