Then some one was down. If it was Pink he was not
out, for there was fighting still going on. The laborers working
on the grounds were running.
Lily stood up in the car, pale and sickened. She was only vaguely
conscious of a car that suddenly left the road, and dashed
recklessly across the priceless turf, but she did see, and recognize,
Louis Akers as he leaped from it and flinging men this way and that
disappeared into the storm center. She could hear his voice, too,
loud and angry, and see the quick dispersal of the crowd. Some of
the men, foreigners, passed quite near to her, and eyed her either
sullenly or with mocking smiles. She was quite oblivious of them.
She got out and ran with shaking knees across to where Pink lay on
the grass, his profile white and sharply chiseled, with two or three
men bending over him.
Pink was dead. Those brutes had killed him. Pink.
He was not dead. He was moving his arms.
Louis Akers straightened when he saw her and took off his hat.
"Nothing to worry about, Miss Cardew," he said. "But what sort of
idiocy--! Hello, old man, all right now?"
Pink sat up, then rose stiffly and awkwardly. He had a cut over one
eye, and he felt for his handkerchief.
Pages:
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189