“But—but you aren’t hurt, are you?” Hagle asked tremulously.
“No; not to speak of.”
“I’m glad of that!” said Hagle so heartily that Poke glanced at him wonderingly.
Zorn scowled, and kicked at a broken plane. “You’re lucky to save your neck!” he growled. “Funny the things that don’t kill idiots! But if you aren’t damaged, this contraption of yours is, all right! Mighty few pieces left to put together, I should say!”
Poke was relieved of the need of making reply; for just then Lon Gates came upon the scene, having left his automobile in the road. It took him but an instant to grasp the situation.
“Well, I guess you’ve done it now,” he remarked, having satisfied himself that Poke had come to no great harm. “Way you was scootin’ along—you and your Scary Hen—say, but you was jest playin’ tag with the high places! And as for monopolizin’ things—son, I never see such a road-hog as you was. You wanted everything between the fences, and by jiminy, you was takin’ it! But I’d kinder like to know the end o’ the story. What happened in the last chapter?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Poke confessed. “It—it ended mighty suddenly.”
“But it didn’t end you—that’s the main p’int.”
“No; I’m all right,” said Poke pluckily. A little stream of blood was trickling from a gash in his cheek. He wiped it away with his sleeve. Hagle stepped up to him, and pulling out his handkerchief, fell to dabbing at the wound. It was a most kindly meant attention, but Poke shrank back, in embarrassment. And Lon came to the rescue.
“Well, I guess I may have to find you a barrel to go home in. Them pants o’ yourn is what an artist feller I know would call sorter impressionistic. But, seein’ as how you ain’t killed, I dunno’s there’s any great cause for complaint. And now, with your kind permission, I’ll take a peek at the remains o’ the Scary Hen.”