“Just a scratch.”
But Phyl insisted upon stanching the flow of blood with her handkerchief. As Phyl concentrated on Tom’s cut, a red convertible drew up, stopped with a squeal of brakes, then pulled over to the side of the road just ahead of them.
“Hey! What gives?” It was Bud Barclay, on his way from the plant to dinner at the Swifts’ house.
SPACE KITE 23
He leaped out and came running toward them, giving a whistle of dismay when he saw that the front of Phyl’s car had been smashed.
“Barclay to the rescue!” Tom quipped. “You sure turned up at the right time.”
Tom and Phyl told him what had happened. Bud quickly checked Phyl’s car and found it was no longer in driving condition. He then pushed it clear of the highway.
“Stay put, skipperl” Bud ordered when Tom tried to get out and help.
Afterward, Bud insisted upon driving the two victims to the office of Dr. Emerson, the Swifts’ family physician.
Dr. Emerson examined them and bandaged Tom’s cut. “You’re both all right, so far as I can tell,” he announced. “No sign of any concussion. However, you should rest quietly-at least through tomorrow. That means in bed, young man!”
the medic warned with a humorous shake of his finger at Tom.
The young inventor groaned, thinking of the loss of time from work. But he promised to comply.
Bud took Phyl home and called a towing service to get her car. Then he drove Tom to his house.
Mrs. Swift and Sandy paled at sight of Tom’s bandaged forehead. After hearing what had happened, they immediately ordered him to bed. Bud walked upstairs with his pal.
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