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Consciousness returned waveringly as dawn crawled over the cornfield and the birds were derisive. Frank’s only clear emotion was a longing to escape from this agony by death. His whole face reeked with pain. He could not understand why he could scarce see. When he fumblingly raised his hand, he discovered that his right eye was a pulp of blind flesh, and along his jaw he could feel the exposed bone.
He staggered along the path through the cornfield, stumbling over hummocks, lying there sobbing, muttering, “Bess—oh, come—Bess!”
His strength lasted him just to the high road, and he sloped to earth, lay by the road like a drunken beggar. A motor was coming, but when the driver saw Frank’s feebly uplifted arm he sped on. Pretending to be hurt was a device of holdup men.
“Oh, God, won’t anybody help me?” Frank whimpered, and suddenly he was laughing, a choking twisted laughter. “Yes, I said it, Philip—‘God’ I said—I suppose it proves I’m a good Christian!”
He rocked and crawled along the road to a cottage. There was a light—a farmer at early breakfast. “At last!” Frank wept. When the farmer answered the knock, holding up a lamp, he looked once at Frank, then screamed and slammed the door.
An hour later a motorcycle policeman found Frank in the ditch, in half delirium.
“Another drunk!” said the policeman, most cheerfully, snapping the support in place on his cycle. But as he stooped and saw Frank’s half-hidden face, he whispered, “Good God Almighty!”