“Ribs—two-three cracked or—or caved in. Hur—hurry, can’t ye?”
Varley caught Sam’s sleeve. “I’ll go! Best thing to do. I’m no good here, and you may be. All right?”
Sam nodded. He did not see what service he could render by remaining; yet he was unwilling to desert the sufferer, and Varley could do as much as he could in summoning passers-by to the rescue.
“Beat it, then!” he said crisply.
Varley set off at the best pace he could make; and while Sam was studying the problem of first aid under difficulties, [his new comrade was racing across the fields]. Breathless from his exertions, he reached the highway just as two youths on snow-shoes came into sight around a bend. Varley recognized them as Poke and Step. They were not the aids he would have chosen in such an emergency, but this was not a time for delay.
Step hailed him with amazement. “Hullo! What are you doing off here by your lonesome? Lost, are you?”
“Come—come along!” Varley panted. “Both—both of you! Man hurt—over in the woods!”
“But what are you——?”
Varley didn’t let Step finish the question.
“Hustle! It’s a—a bad job. Parker sent me——”