"Yes, neighbor Jessup, it is I," answered Storms. "Father is sadly put about, and wants to know how it all happened. He means to have justice done, if no one else stirs in the matter—and I think with him."
A look of keen, almost ferocious anxiety, darkened the young man's face as he said this.
"That is kind and neighborly," answered the gardener, moving restlessly in his bed. "But there is nothing to tell."
Storms looked at the sick man in dumb amazement. Up to this time his manner had been anxious, and his voice hurried. Now a dark red glow rose to his face, and blazed from his eyes with a glare of relief.
"Nothing to tell, and you shot through the shoulder, in a way that has set the whole country side in commotion? This is a pretty tale to go home with."
The young man spoke cheerfully, and with a sort of chuckle in his voice.
"It is the truth," said Jessup, closing his eyes.
"But some one shot you."
"It was an accident," whispered the sick man.
"An accident! Oh! was it an accident?"