He
lifted the limp form tenderly, and kneeling in the ring held her
bruised head in his hands.
"Can't you get a doctor!" he shouted desperately to Barker.
"Here's the doctor!" some one called; and a stranger came toward
them. He bent over the seemingly lifeless form, his fingers on
the tiny wrist, his ear to the heart.
"Well, sir?" Jim faltered, for he had caught the puzzled look in
the doctor's eyes as his deft hand pressed the cruelly wounded
head.
"I can't tell just yet," said the doctor. "She must be taken
away."
"Where can we take her?" asked Jim, a look of terror in his
great, troubled eyes.
"The parsonage is the nearest house," said the doctor. "I am
sure the pastor will be glad to have her there until we can find
out how badly she is hurt."
In an instant Barker was back in the centre of the ring. He
announced that Polly's injuries were slight, called the attention
of the audience to the wonderful concert to take place, and bade
them make ready for the thrilling chariot race which would end
the show.
Jim, blind with despair, lifted the light burden and staggered
out of the tent, while the band played furiously and the people
fell back into their seats. The Roman chariots thundered and
clattered around the outside of the ring, the audience cheered
the winner of the race, and for the moment Polly was forgotten.
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