We turned in consternation and looked about us. Where should we go? We were on a deserted country road. There were no houses in sight to which we could apply for assistance, no stream near by from which we could procure water. We were utterly helpless and alone. The other omnibuses containing our companions had disappeared in the distance ahead of us.
“Oh! what shall we do?” I exclaimed. “Is there no way we can help the poor fellow?”
“I think he has only fainted,” said Ray, with his face close to Fred’s. “We must find something to bring him to.”
Suddenly Tony Larcom uttered a quick exclamation of relief, and leaped back into the omnibus, where he began searching under the seat for something.
“I have it,” he cried, as he joined us again, carrying in his hand a large bottle full of the raw whisky which we used to bathe bruises and sprains. “Here, use this. It is pretty bad stuff to swallow, but it will help him.”
Ray seized the bottle, and placing it to Fred’s mouth, forced his lips open. A few swallows produced an almost immediate change. Fred took a long breath, moaned once or twice, then opened his eyes.
For a moment he seemed surprised, but this expression quickly gave way to one of pain. He uttered a sharp cry and again closed his eyes. The color had entirely forsaken his lips. Evidently he had sustained some injury of which we knew nothing. We attempted to raise him up in order to make his position more comfortable, when he gave vent to another cry.
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Tony Larcom. “No wonder the poor fellow suffers! Look at his right arm. It must be broken.”
For the first time we noticed that Fred’s arm hung limp and distorted. The shirt at the elbow was torn, and disclosed an ugly looking bruise from which the blood was slowly oozing.
“He must have been kicked by the horses,” said Ray. “Here, fellows, we ought not to delay a minute, but get him into the hands of a doctor as soon as possible.”