“You can have it the first thing recess,” promised Bobby to the disappointed Palmer, who felt better then and helped Bobby put the fascinating toy under the stairs in the back hall.

As soon as the recess bell sounded, Palmer and Bobby dashed down and out into the yard.  Meg, who was a grade below them but in the same room, stayed behind to clean her desk, a favorite occupation with the little girls.  Miss Mason, the teacher, was watering a shelf of plants, and the windows were all open to the lovely April sunshine.  Meg hummed a little, she was so happy.

“Ow!  Ow!” suddenly the most heart-breaking howl rose from the school yard, the cry of some one in great pain or sadly frightened.

“Some one is hurt!” cried Miss Mason, hurrying to the window that faced the playground.

“Ow!  Ow!  Ow!” louder and louder the shrieks rose.

“Can’t be killed and make a noise like that,” said Miss Mason practically.  “Can you tell who it is, Meg?”

Meg pushed aside one of the girls who stood in her way.  She gave a glance from the window.  She saw a crowd of boys surrounding the crying one and more boys hurrying from every part of the yard.  The group parted for a moment and Meg glimpsed a bit of gleaming red tin.  It was Bobby’s automobile.

“It’s Palmer!” Meg guessed instantly, “He must have hit the fence!”

She turned and ran from the room, leaving Miss Mason to reason out, if she could, what connection Palmer’s howling had with hitting the fence.

Meg slid down the banisters, as the quickest way to reach the door, and was just in time to see Mr. Carter, the principal, run from his office out into the yard.  Mr. Carter was really principal of the grammar school, where he spent most of his time, leaving the primary grades under the control of Miss Wright, the vice-principal.  But he spent a certain number of days each month in the primary school office and the pupils soon discovered that he knew quite as well as Miss Wright what was going on in the lower grades.

“Oh, my!” gasped Meg as she sped after Mr. Carter.  “I didn’t know he was going to be here to-day.  I wonder if Palmer is hurt much?”

Whether Palmer was badly hurt or not, he was certainly making a great noise.  He continued to scream, “at the top of his lungs,” Norah would have said.

“Ow!  Ow!” wailed Palmer.  “Ow-wow!”

“Here, here, boy, nothing can be as bad as that sounds,” said Mr. Carter, pushing his way in among the children and stooping down to Palmer, who was huddled in a heap on the ground, his feet and the tin automobile apparently inextricably mixed.  “Stand up, Palmer, and let me see where you are hurt.”

Palmer struggled to his feet, and Meg could see that he had a bump over one eye.  The sleeve of his jacket was torn and his lip was bleeding slightly.

“Why, you’re not so badly off,” Mr. Carter comforted him, taking his own handkerchief and wiping off the streaks left by tears and dirt on Palmer’s round face.  “No bones broken, laddie, and Miss Wright will fix that lip with a little court-plaster.  She knows first-aid.  What in the world were you doing down at this end of the yard?”