"Lord," moaned the stricken one in unmistakable language. "He's praying," thought Virginia and solemnly bowed her head. Ike returned, followed soon by a doctor. "He's regained consciousness," the bystander told the medical man. The physician knelt by the injured youth. He listened to his heart and then started to lift an eyelid when both lids opened so wide that Virginia was enabled to confirm her previous impression that the motorcyclist's eyes were black. The doctor felt the man's body and the groans redoubled as he touched one of the legs. The medical man straightened up. "His head seems to be all right. There is a fracture of the right leg and probably a rib or two broken. He is lucky to get off so easy. He will be a mass of bruises, too, I suppose," he announced. He glanced curiously at the waiting car and then at Virginia and went on, "You are Obadiah Dale's daughter, are you not?" As she nodded her assent, he asked, "How did the accident happen?" "I was to blame," confessed Virginia, her eyes filling with tears. "You weren't driving the car?" he argued sympathetically and when she admitted it, "I don't see how you can be in fault." "I was though, doctor." He gave her an enveloping professional glance. The pale face and the flood of tears fighting to break their dams did not escape him. "You are suffering from the shock of the accident. You have been under a strain and are nervous and unstrung." Ike considered this an appropriate moment to make public outcry. "Dat man was to blame. Ran smack into me. Lak to punch er hole in de tiah wid 'is haid. Ah gwine look fo' er punkcher," he assured the crowd which had assembled. This attempt to win public favor at the expense of a semi-unconscious opponent filled the doctor with indignation. "You talk like a fool," he informed the chauffeur. "Without inquiring into the matter I conclude that you are to blame. You help me carry this man under the trees and make him comfortable until I can call an ambulance." The snap judgment of the medical man apparently struck Ike as of uncontrovertible accuracy, because he prepared in silence to assist in caring for the injured until Virginia suggested, "Why not take the man in our machine and get him to the hospital so much quicker?" "Very good," agreed the doctor. He eyed Ike sternly. "It's not a question of speed now. There has been too much of that around here in my opinion." "Yas'r," the chauffeur made illogical response. "Ah ain' no speeder. Ah is de carefles' drivah in dis yere town. Safety fust. Dat's ma motta." "Appearances are against you," the doctor snorted as he prepared a rough splint to protect the leg of the motorcyclist during his removal. They placed the youth in the Dale car, the doctor holding him in his arms but using a middle seat to support the lower part of the body. Ike pulled down the other seat and, at a sign from the physician, Virginia took it.