The driver was concerned. "He's knocked out," he said as he bent over
the still form. "I'm a doctor and I'll take him home and fix him up.
He's a plucky chap, all right! He kept you from cashing in, probably.
Say, young fellow, are you deaf? I honked loud enough to be heard a
mile. Only for him you'd be in the dust there and you'd have caught it
full. The car just grazed him. It's merely a scalp wound," he said in
relief as he examined the prostrate figure. "Know where he lives?"
"Yes, just a little distance beyond the schoolhouse down this road."
"Good. I'll take him home. I can't say how sorry I am it happened. Give
me a lift, will you? You sit in the back seat and hold him while I
drive."
Lyman did not relish the task assigned to him but the doctor's tones
admitted of no refusal. Martin Landis was taken to his home and in his
semiconscious condition he did not know that his head with its
handkerchief binding leaned against the rascally breast of Lyman
Mertzheimer.