His chest was visibly
crushed flat, and his eyes were dreadful, half-started from their
sockets.
For a moment Montague stood staring, as if turned to stone. Then
from the other side of the car came a moan, and he ran toward the
sound. A second man lay in the ditch, moving feebly. Montague sprang
to help him.
The man wore a heavy bearskin coat. Montague lifted him, and saw
that he was a very elderly person, with a cut across his forehead,
and a face as white as chalk. The other helped him to a position
with his back against the bank, and he opened his eyes and groaned.
Montague knelt beside him, watching his breathing. He had a sense of
utter helplessness--there was nothing he could think of to do, save
to unbutton the man's coat and keep wiping the blood from his face.
"Some whisky," the stranger moaned. Montague answered that he had
none; but the other replied that there was some in the car.
The slope of the bank was such that Montague could crawl under, and
find the compartment with the bottle in it. The old man drank some,
and a little colour came back to his face.
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