The lamps did little good in such a smother. The flakes whipped into his face and clung to his goggles. Again and again he wiped away the accumulated moisture with his mittened hand—thereby blurring his sight for a moment entirely.
It was just after one of these attempts to clear his vision that the accident happened. The truck was steaming along at a good clip, for the Speedwells were anxious to get home to shelter and a warm supper.
Dan shouted and seized his brother’s shoulder. The latter felt the jar as the mudguard struck the dim figure that he had only seen when the truck was right upon it.
Down went the foot passenger, who had been plowing against the storm, too, deaf and blind to the motor-truck. Billy shouted, but was not too excited to stop the motor and brake the car.
He leaped into the gathering snow on one side, while Dan left the truck on the other. Fortunately the wayfarer had been flung aside; the wheels had not passed over him.
“He must be badly hurt, Dan!” gasped Billy, in great distress, on his knees beside the fallen figure.
“Does he move?”
“I—I can’t tell. Try it, Dannie,” choked the younger Speedwell. “I—I’m afraid to do so.”
Dan had the wrist of the unfortunate in his own bare fingers. “His pulse is all right,” he said.
Just then the unknown stirred and muttered. What he said neither of the Speedwells could understand; but they were both delighted. Certainly the victim of the accident was far from dead!