"Lovely!" said Ramey drowsily, and the vision's face colored most unecclesiastically. Behind Ramey someone chuckled. Ramey, turning painfully, saw a tall, mahogany-skinned, nice-looking youngster with brown hair and eyes, dancing eyes crow's-footed with the wrinkles of perpetual mirth. This lad and the girl, he saw now, were the only whites in the circle. All the others were natives. The young man laughed again. "Well, Sheila, there doesn't seem to be anything the matter with _this_ one! Or with his emotional reflexes." Recollection seeped slowly back upon Ramey. He made an effort to rise. "The--the 'plane," he said confusedly. "Went dead. I tried to set 'er down in a field. Crashed--" The girl restrained him gently but firmly. The cool touch of her hands was soothing. "You must lie still, now. Everything is going to be all right. You did crash, yes. But fortunately we were here to drag you and your friend out before the 'plane caught fire. After you've rested for a moment, we'll take you to camp--" It all came back to Ramey now. This time the girl's hands could not prevent him from raising himself. "Red! Is--is he all right, too?" The young man answered. "Your buddy? I suppose so, or Syd would be chanting a funeral march by now. Hey, Syd! How's your patient?" * * * * * The huddle encircling Ramey split, admitting a third white man. Ramey glanced at him casually, then started, took another good look, and turned to peer over his shoulder again at the one who had called. The two young men were as like as two peas in a pod. Same height, build, coloring. Only their facial expressions differed. The newcomer's face was as dour as the first chap's was jovial. He commented acidly, "I wish you wouldn't be so boisterous, Lake! I guess he has a chance to recover--if complications don't set in. Of course, these head injuries are dangerous. It may be a fractured skull, or he may lose his sight--" "Blind!" gasped Ramey. "Red? Oh, Lord--" For the third time, the girl quieted him. This time with a smile. "Don't get excited, soldier. Your companion's apparently in fine shape. That's just Syd's nice, optimistic way of viewing things. 'Fractured skull or loss of sight' is a favorable prognosis--coming from _him_! If it were anything _really_ serious, Syd would have the workmen digging a grave by now. Are you sure you feel well enough to get up?" Ramey nodded, not daring to risk speech as he got to his feet. His head throbbed like a concrete mixer, and there were rubber pipes where his shin-bones should be. But somehow he managed it, and once off the ground, began to feel better. He strode to Barrett's side. The blood had been sponged from the redhead's face, and his head was rudely, but efficiently, bandaged. He grinned at Ramey. "Hyah, Sunday-driver! Next time holler before we go under a low bridge. I forgot to duck!"