They both vaulted the second fence.  The Baby still kept his distance ahead, but when he heard that she too sprang over, a fear for her safety darted across his excited brain.  Would those cantering animals jump after and crush her beneath their feet, or would she fall on the rocks of the shore which he was going to leap over?  The Baby intended to leap the shore and lose his identity by a swim in the black water.

It was this darting thought of anxiety for Helen that made him hesitate in his leap.  Too late to stop, the hesitation was fatal to fair performance.  The Baby came down on the shore with a groan, his leg under him and his head on the earth.

He saw Helen pause beside him, deliberately staring through the dim light.

‘I’m not hurt,’ said the Baby, because he knew that he was.

‘You are only the Syndicate Baby!’ she exclaimed with interrogatory indignation.

’I’m going to cut the Syndicate; I’ll never have anything more to do with them, Miss Johns.’

Helen did not understand the significance of this eager assurance.

The Baby’s brain became clear; he tried to rise, but could not.

‘Are you not hurt?’ she asked.

‘Oh! no, not at all, Miss Johns’ (he spoke with eager, youthful politeness); ’it’s only—­it’s only that I’ve doubled my leg and can’t quite get up.’

The Baby was pretty tough; a few bumps and breaks were matters of small importance to him; his employers had already bargained with him not to play football as he gained so many holidays in bandages thereby.  Just now he was quick enough to take in the situation:  Helen despised him, it was neck or nothing, he must do all his pleading once for all, and the compensation for a broken leg was this, that she could not have the inhumanity to leave him till he declared himself fit to be left.  He pulled himself round, and straightened the leg before him as he sat.

Helen was not accustomed to falls and injuries; she was shocked and pitiful, but she was stern too; she felt that she had the right.

’I’m very sorry; I will go and get some one to help you, but you know it’s entirely your own fault.  What have you been behaving in this way for?’

‘If you’d only believe me,’ pleaded the Baby, ’I—­I—­you really can have no idea, Miss Johns——­’

If she could have seen how white and earnest his young face was she might have listened to him, but the light was too dim.

‘I want to know this’ (severely), ’Was it you who got on to our sailing boat that other night?’

’I thought you were alarmed, Miss Johns, and in a rather—­rather dangerous situation.’  The Baby was using his prettiest tones, such as he used when he went out to a dance.

If she could have known how heroic it was to utter these mincing accents over a broken leg she might have been touched; but she did not even know that the leg was broken.  She went on rigidly, ’How could you get aboard when she was sailing so fast?  Where did you come from?’