“Hurry!” Sam urged. “That fellow’s in trouble now. You can’t hear his engine any more.”
It was quite true. The loud reports had ceased abruptly; there were no sounds from beyond the bend in the road where the speeding driver had vanished.
Lon gave his young friends an excellent exhibition of how fast a careful chauffeur can go, on occasion. But he had not far to go—less than a quarter-mile, in fact. Then he was throwing on his brakes, and whistling shrilly as he did so.
The other car—or what was left of it—was across the ditch. It lay on its side, with its front axle jammed against a boulder. The cover of the hood had been torn off, and the engine was exposed. The leather top was in ribbons; the cushions had vanished. One back wheel lay against the stone wall bordering the road.
“Jee-ru-salem!” Lon exclaimed. “I’ll bet a lot o’ things happened to the citizen managin’ that joy ride, and happened all of a sudden! But where is he?”
As if in answer a figure raised itself beyond the wall. Lon drew a long breath of relief.
“Say, but I thought he must ’a’ been killed, sure for sartain! It’s an amazin’ mercy he’s got a leg left to stand on!”
With that, Lon was out of the car, and striding to the stranger’s aid, the boys pressing closely behind him. But, as the event proved, there was very little for them to do.
The man—he was a tall, gaunt person with a wisp of chin beard—seemed to have come to no great bodily harm, though his clothing was ripped and torn, his hat was missing, and the sole of one of his shoes flapped like a loose slipper when he moved. From the clump of brush, into which he had been projected, and which mercifully had broken the force of his fall, he limped forward, a step at a time, pausing to bend a knee, test an elbow, or otherwise investigate the extent of his injuries. Lon tried to offer him a supporting arm, but was waved back.
“No; let me stand on my own feet, Mister—kinder a luxury I find it to be able to,” said the man. “Say, but we must ’a’ been goin’ some!”