"Put me on my feet, sir, and let me see," begged d.i.c.k.

He took a few steps, wincing, his face white.

"d.i.c.k, old fellow," faltered Dave, "I'm afraid you've broken a leg."

"No; or I couldn't stand on my legs and walk," Prescott replied.

"It hurts up here, where the side of the car rested."

He placed one hand on his right hip.

"Then your hip is broken," groaned Darry.

"I don't believe that, either," argued d.i.c.k. "If my hip were broken I don't believe I could move my leg or step."

He took two or three steps, wincing painfully, to show what he could do.

"Nothing but a hip bruise, or I'm guessing wrong," smiled the white-faced sufferer.

"In any case, you're meat for a doctor," put in Deputy Simmons, with rough sympathy.

"All right," replied d.i.c.k. "I'll walk to the doctor's office.

How many miles is it?"

"About fourteen," replied Simmons. "I'll bring the doctor to you. It's only about six miles to Ross' farm. I'll borrow his car. Then I can make good time getting the doctor and bringing him here. But you'd better sit down before I start."

"Aren't you going to do anything with the car in the creek?" inquired Prescott.

"What can we do?" demanded the deputy laconically. "There isn't muscle enough in this crowd to hoist the car up the bank. Anyway, her engine is damaged beyond a doubt. No, no, Prescott, you sit down, or lie down, and the rest of you had better wait here until I bring help. I can be back in three hours at the latest. Darrin, will you place one of the lamps at either end of where the bridge was? That may save some farmer from driving in on top of the car."

Dave complied willingly enough. Then Simmons turned to Prescott.

"Now, you sit down, young man," ordered the deputy.

"I'd rather not," d.i.c.k replied. "I haven't anything worse than a bruise. If I keep too quiet the injury will stiffen all the more. I must move my hip a bit, or I may be in for a worse time."

"That may be true," nodded the deputy thoughtfully. "Well, be good, all of you. I'll be back again, as soon as possible."

With that he strode down into the creek, wading through and coming out at the farther side. Then he was lost among the shadows.

Though it hurt to keep on his feet, d.i.c.k, after some minutes, found that he could move about a little more freely, despite the pain.

"That shows there are no bones broken," he a.s.sured his distressed chums.

"Does it?" asked Darrin. "Hang it, I wish I knew more about injuries of this sort. Then I might be able to help you."

"Why, I may be all right, and able to sprint in another half hour,"

smiled d.i.c.k.

"Yes, you will!" jeered Greg. "d.i.c.k, you won't run for a few days to come, anyway."

"A nice lot we are, to set out to aid the law's officers," remarked Dave disgustedly. "d.i.c.k can take only a half a step per minute.

Mr. Valden can use only one hand. Greg's head looks gory. The lot of us couldn't scare a baby now!"

"I can still say, boo!" Prescott laughed.

"Is it wise to try to do so much walking?" questioned Darry, as Greg went back to the creek to wash the blood from the shallow cut on his forehead.

"Yes; for I don't want to grow stiff until I'm where I can take care of myself," d.i.c.k answered, taking a few more steps. "No; don't help me. I want to move alone, and I'm strong enough for that."

So Dave threw himself on the gra.s.s to rest until he bethought himself that, wet as they all were, it might be a good idea to build a fire for drying purposes.

He busied himself in that way, while d.i.c.k started slowly, very painfully, down the road. Only a step at a time could he go.

Greg, returning, ran after him, but Prescott sent him back, so Holmes stretched himself on the ground near the fire.

At times d.i.c.k found he could move about very easily. Then the hip would stiffen and he would be obliged to lean against a tree for a few moments.

For ten minutes or longer he moved thus down the road.

"I'd better be getting back soon, I guess," he mused, "or I may find it too much of a job."

Looking back, as he turned, he could just make out the glow of the fire, very dim, indeed, from where he stood.

"I've got a beacon," smiled d.i.c.k, as he rested against a tree trunk just off the road. He was about to take a step when a figure glided stealthily by.

"By all that's astonishing, it's Tag Mosher!" Prescott gasped.

He clutched at the tree trunk again, watching, for Tag had halted and appeared to be peering hard through the foliage at the fire some distance away.

"I wouldn't want him to find me, now!" thought d.i.c.k, a cold chill running over him at the thought of Tag's desperate savagery.

But at that moment Prescott accidentally made a sound, which, slight though it was, caught young Mosher's ear.

In a twinkling Tag wheeled about, listening, peering. Then, straight toward Prescott he came.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" demanded young Mosher harshly.

"Yes," Prescott admitted, speaking as steadily as he could, though his heart sank for the moment. He knew that Tag would have time to give him a beating that would be doubly severe in his present condition of weakness and pain. That beating could be given in a few swift seconds, and the help within reach of d.i.c.k's voice could not arrive until young Mosher had had time to slip away among the trees of the forest that he knew so well. "What do you want with me?" demanded Tag, bringing his leering face closer to Prescott's.

CHAPTER XIV

THRASHING AN AMBULANCE CASE!

"I want you to stand right where you are until some of my friends come," d.i.c.k made answer.

Then he braced himself for the violent a.s.sault that, he felt, was sure to come. To his intense astonishment, however, Tag heaved a sigh of dejection, then muttered: