“Wounds!” roared the scared wagoner. “No, man, no! Don’t meddle wi’ such gentry folks in my wagon.” So saying, he sought to stay the hand of the bleeder at the moment he was applying the sharp blade of the razor to the bared arm, but only succeeded in driving the instrument deep into the limb. Job turned pale. The wagoner groaned and trembled.
“We shall be hanged for this job—hanged, hanged!”
“Providentially,” as the knight afterwards affirmed, the landlord of the “Barley Mow,” in chastising his wife, had broken his leg, and had called in Dr. Saffron, who, now returning, came upon the wagon containing the bulky body of Sir Scipio, mangled and bleeding.
The apoplectic squire began to return to dim consciousness, and beholding Job, with a razor between his teeth, standing over him, timing his pulse, he gave an involuntary shudder, particularly as he now recalled the late scene, which had terminated in his kicking Job penniless into the highway.
Dr. Saffron took the wounded arm, looked at Job, and said,—
“Is this your doings?”
Job looked, “Yes,” but spoke not.
“Bleeding!” repeated the doctor, fiercely; “I call it capital carving.” Then turning to the wagoner, he said, “And you found Sir Scipio lying in the road?”
“Ay, sir; rolled up like a hedge pig,” replied the wagoner.
Job wiped his razor, and slipped silently away.