ain," said Ross and leaned
forward to slap the pony with the reins.

At the instant that he leaned forward there was a blinding flash of
light, and, almost simultaneously, a terrific crash.

For a second Anton was stunned, and then, as the frightened pony started
to bolt, he saw he was alone.

Ross was gone.

The crippled lad cast a frightened glance over his shoulder and saw his
chum lying on the ground beside the roadway, stripped to the skin. Some
pieces of his clothing, burning and smouldering, lay a few feet away.

Grabbing the reins, Anton managed to pull the pony down to a walk and
scrambled out, awkwardly, with the crutch, but rapidly.

The lightning, as so often happens, had snatched every stitch of Ross's
clothes from him. There was not a mark of a burn on the boy's body, but
he lay deathly still, with his arm cramped under him.

Anton, exerting all his strength, rolled his chum over on his back.
Then, kneeling across him, as best he could with his lame leg, he took
Ross's wrists, jerked his arms to their full length, brought the wrists
back upon the chest and pressed. Again he stretched the arms out, again
brought them back, and pressed. Again, and again and again.

Time passed and the perspiration stood out on the crippled lad's
forehead and trickled down into his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
Yet he did not pause for a second.

He stretched the arms out, brought them in and pressed down upon the
chest.

Again and again and again.

Fifteen minutes passed, and there was no sign.

Probably further work was of no use, but Anton persisted. He could not
stop, as long as there was a chance.

Out, in again, and pressure on the chest.

A clatter of approaching wheels caused Anton to look up. It was the
buggy, with his father whipping the pony to full speed, returning along
the road to find out what accident had happened. Anton shouted, but did
not stop.

Out, in again, and pressure on the chest.

The buggy stopped and his father jumped out.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Ross," answered Anton, "struck by lightning!"

"Dead?" queried his father.

"He can't be!" declared Anton passionately, and went on with his
artificial respiration.

"Let me do that a while," said his father.

"Wait!" cried Anton.

He thought he saw an eyelid flutter.

Out, in again, and pressure on the chest.

"He's coming to!" the man declared.

Yes, that was a movement. The lips parted. There was a faint heave o