There was a great cut across his forehead, and in reply to Peggy's
anxious inquiries, the lad, who was conscious, said that he thought that
his ankle had been broken. Peggy touched the ankle he indicated, and light
as her fingers fell upon it, the boy uttered an anguished moan.
"Oh, gee, Peg!" he cried bravely, screwing up his face in his endeavor not
to make an outcry, "that hurts like blazes."
"Poor boy," breathed Peggy tenderly, "I'm so sorry."
"I'm so glad you're not hurt, Sis," said the boy, "I don't matter much. I
wish you could stop this bleeding above my eye, though."
Peggy ripped off a flounce of her petticoat and formed it into a bandage.
"Can I help. I'm so sorry."
The voice was Fanning Harding's. He stood behind her with Regina at his
side.
"Oh, how dreadful." exclaimed the dark-eyed girl, with a shudder, "my--my
poor car."
"And my poor brother," snapped out Peggy, indignantly, "if it hadn't been
for your stupid idea of racing this wouldn't have happened. I just knew
we'd have an accident."
"It's too bad," repeated Fanning, "but can't I do something?"
"Yes, get me some water. There's a brook a little way down this road.
You'll find a tin cup under the rear seat in our machine."
Fanning, perhaps glad to escape Peggy's righteous anger, hastened off on
the errand.
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