"In the fall, Carson's left leg was broken above the knee. He was still unconscious when Dr. John E. Salter, a physician living ten miles from the Carson farm on the road to the capital, arrived at the deserted farm, summoned by a mysterious male voice by telephone. The sheriff's theory, as well as the doctor's, is that young Nash, fearful that he had seriously injured the farmer, summoned medical help before leaving with the girl.
"A warrant for the arrest of David Nash has been issued by the sheriff, charging the young student with assault with intent to kill and with contributing to the delinquency of a minor. The warrant for Miss Ford's arrest charges moral delinquency. Since she is a ward of the state until her eighteenth birthday, she is also liable to arrest on the simple charge of running away from the farm on which the state orphanage authorities had placed her for the summer."
Sally, trembling so that her teeth chattered, watched David as he read the entire story. His young face became more and more grim as he read. When he had finished the shameful, hideously untrue account of what had really been a piece of superb gallantry on his part, he crumpled the paper slowly between the fingers of his big hand as if that hand were crushing out the life of the man who had lied so monstrously. Then, lifting a lid of the big coal range, he thrust the crumpled mass of paper into the flames.
"But--what are we going to do, David?" Sally whispered, her eyes searching his grim face piteously. "They'll send me to the reformatory if they catch me, and you--you--oh, David! They'll send you to prison for years and years! I wish you'd never laid eyes on me! I'd rather die than have you come to harm through me."
She sagged against the narrow shelf which served as a kitchen table, weeping forlornly.
"Don't cry, Sally," David pleaded gently. "It's not your fault. I'd do it all over again if anyone else dared insult you. Oh, the devil! These onions are burning up! Skip along now and don't worry. I'm cook tonight. Buck's on a spree. Keep a stiff upper lip, honey. In all that brown paint and that rig, you could walk into the sheriff's office and he'd do nothing worse than ask you to read his palm."