The car swerved sickeningly. I
noticed, dully, that Blackie did not go white as
novelists say men do in moments of horror. A dull red
flush crept to the very base of his neck. With a twist
of his frail body he tried to throw off Peter's hands.
I remember leaning over the back of the seat and trying
to pull Peter back as I realized that it was a madman
with whom we were dealing. Nothing seemed real. It was
ridiculously like the things one sees in the moving
picture theaters. I felt no fear.
"Sit down, Orme!" Blackie yelled. "You'll ditch us!
Dawn! God!--"
We shot down a little hill. Two wheels were lifted
from the ground. The machine was poised in the air for
a second before it crashed into the ditch and turned over
completely, throwing me clear, but burying Blackie and
Peter under its weight of steel and wood and whirring
wheels.
I remember rising from the ground, and sinking back
again and rising once more to run forward to where the
car lay in the ditch, and tugging at that great frame of
steel with crazy, futile fingers. Then I ran screaming
down the road toward a man who was tranquilly working in
a field nearby.
CHAPTER XX
BLACKIE'S VACATION COMES
The shabby blue office coat hangs on the hook in the
little sporting room where Blackie placed it.
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