The automobile made a wild effort to climb a tree, and the next thing Motor Matt realized was the fact that he was turning handsprings in the road.
Silence, sudden and grim, followed the frantic medley of sound. A bird twittered somewhere off in the woods, and the flutelike notes hit Matt's tortured ear-drums like a volley of musketry.
He got up, dazedly. His hat was gone, and one of his trouser legs was missing. The back of his head, still tender from a blow he had received in Grand Rapids, reminded him by a sharp twinge that it had been badly treated.
Matt limped to the tree that had caused the wreck, and leaned against it. Then, and not till then, was he able to make a comprehensive view of the scene.
The front of the automobile was badly smashed—so badly that it was a wonder Matt had ever escaped with his life. One of the forward wheels had come off.
McGlory, in his shirt sleeves—and with one sleeve missing—was on his hands and knees. He was facing the mandarin—staring at that remarkable person with a well-what-do-you-think-of-that expression.
The mandarin was sitting up in the road. The black cap with the red button was hanging to one side of his head, one of his embroidered sandals was gone, and the yellow silk blouse and trousers were torn. In some manner the steering wheel had become detached from the post, and Tsan Ti was hanging to it like grim death. He seemed still to be driving, for the steering wheel was in the correct position.
Certainly it was not a time to laugh, but Motor Matt could hardly help it.