Elliston knelt and felt the man's pulse.
"He lives," said the New Yorker, "but there isn't much life; he cannot last long."
"A little brandy might revive him," said Dyke Darrel. "I would like to have him speak; it is of the utmost importance."
"Indeed it is," cried Elliston. "Where is the flask of brandy you brought from the train, Dyke?"
"In the buggy."
"Send a man for it."
"I will go myself;" and Dyke Darrel set off at a rapid walk across the field. At the same moment the man on the blanket groaned and opened his eyes.
"How do you feel, my man?" questioned Elliston.
"I—I'm used up."
"It looks so."