one side. Into the ditch
it plunged.

As the fore wheels dropped into the depression, the body of the car rose
in the air. Orme, still clinging to Arima, shot forward. He was
conscious, in that fraction of a second, that he must release his hold,
or Arima's neck would be broken; so he unbent his arm.

The earth arose and something struck him heavily. He saw a firmament of
brilliant stars. Then all was black.

CHAPTER XVII

A CHANCE OF THE GAME

The first impression that came to Orme with returning consciousness was
one of impending disaster. His mind was renewing its last thought before
it had ceased to work.

Then he realized that the disaster had already occurred, and he moved his
arms and legs, to see if they had been injured. They gave him no pain,
and he raised himself to a sitting position.

The soft night hovered about him. He heard confusedly the droning of
insects, and the distant mournful call of a whip-poor-will. The roar of
the car was strangely missing. What had become of it? And where was
Arima? These were the first questions he asked himself as he became able
to think without confusion.

He now became aware that his head hurt, and raising his hand, he found a
large bump under the hair above his right temple. Turning, he discovered
that he had been thrown over the fence into a field of thick-standing
grain, which had broken his fall. His head must have struck the fence in
passing.

He got to his feet. At first he was bothered by dizziness, but that soon
disappeared.

Climbing the fence, he saw that the car had turned over on one side. At a
glance there were no evidences of superficial damage, but it would take a
team of horses and some time to right it and get it back into the road.
The lamps had been extinguished.

In the ditch near the car lay Arima. One of his legs was bent under him
horribly. Orme hurried over to him.

The Japanese was conscious. His beady eyes glittered wetly in the
starlight, but he said no word, gave no groan, made no show of pain.
Whatever he may have suffered, he endured with the stoicism that is
traditional in his race.

"Much hurt?" asked Orme, bending over him.

"My leg broke." Arima spoke unemotionally.

Orme considered. "I'll send you help," he said, at last. "Lie quiet for a
little while, and you will be looked after."

He rose, smoothed out his clothing, and pulled himself together. It was
not part of his program to let whomever he might meet