"Dick, 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 Dick. "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 Dick. "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.
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