Jimmie Dale swung around the corner of the house, running at top speed.
Something that was like a hot iron suddenly burned and seared along the
side of his head just above the ear. He reeled, staggered, recovered
himself, and dashed on. It nauseated him, that stinging in his head,
and all at once seemed to be draining his strength away. The shouts, the
shots, the running feet became like a curious buzzing in his ears. It
seemed strange that they should have hit him, that he should be wounded!
If he could only reach the low stone wall by the road, he could at least
make a fight for his life on the other side!
Red streaks swam before Jimmie Dale's eyes. The wall was such a long way
off--a yard or two was a very long way more to go--the weakness
seemed to be creeping up now even to numb his brain. No, here was the
wall--they hadn't hit him again--he laughed in a demented way--and
rolled his body over, and fell to the other side.
"JIMMIE!"
The cry seemed to reach some inner consciousness, revive him, send the
blood whipping through his veins. That voice! It was her--HERS! The
Tocsin! There was an automobile, engine racing, standing there in the
road. He won to his feet--dark, rushing forms were almost at the wall.
He fired--once--twice--fired again--and turned, staggering for the car.
"Jimmie! Jimmie--QUICK!"
Panting, gasping, he half fell into the tonneau.
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