“What’s happened to Mr. Whitemore?” asked a stout broker, peering over the railing at the unconscious corn operator.
“He’s been hurt,” answered Vance. “I’d be obliged to you, Mr. Bradley, if you will come inside and help me get him into his private office.”
At that moment the assistant bookkeeper returned, and was, of course, astonished to see such a crowd and commotion in the place.
“You back, Vance?” he ejaculated. “What’s occurred here?”
“Trouble,” replied the boy shortly. “Go out and fetch a doctor for Mr. Whitemore. I’m afraid he’s seriously injured.”
Vance and the stout broker having carried the corn operator into his sanctum, they, with Bessie’s help, tried to bring the insensible man to consciousness.
“Looks as if he had been struck by some heavy, blunt instrument,” remarked Broker Bradley, examining the jagged wound on Mr. Whitemore’s skull.
“He was hit with the heavy office ruler,” said Vance soberly.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the broker in surprise. “How did that happen?”
“I will tell you, but for the present I hope you will let it go no further.”