"Are you hurt? Where are you?"
Uttering these words after he had hurried into the woods a short
distance, the young inventor paused for an answer. At first he
could hear nothing but the drip of water from the branches of the
trees; then, as he listened intently, he became aware of a groan
not far away.
"Where are you?" cried the lad again. "I've come to help you.
Where are you?"
He had lost what little fear he had had at first, that it might be
one of the unscrupulous gang, and came to the conclusion that he
might safely offer to help.
Once more the groan sounded and it was followed by a faint voice
speaking:
"Here I am, under the big oak tree. Oh, whoever you are, help me
quickly! I'm bleeding to death!"
With the sound of the voice to guide him, Tom swung around. The
appeal had come from the left and, looking in that direction, he
saw, through the mist, a large oak tree. Leaping over the
underbrush toward it he caught sight of the wounded man at its
foot. Beside him lay a gun and there was a wound in the man's
right arm.
"Who shot you?" cried Tom, hurrying to the side of the man. "Was
it some of those patent thieves?" Then, realizing that a stranger
would know nothing of the men who had stolen the model, Tom
prepared to change the form of his question.
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