“Who are you? Have you seen anything of two boys on horses, riding as if pursued by Old Nick himself?”
“We’re the boys, I fancy,” confessed Dick. “You’re Mr. Swinton, of Robin Hood’s Tavern.”
It was the landlord, and he jumped out in a hurry when he found he had overtaken Dick and Brad.
“Look here, you chaps,” he cried, “don’t you think you can upset my house, smash windows and doors and run away without paying the damages! I’m an honest man, and what’s happened to-night at my place may ruin me. I demand damages, and you’ll have to pay ’em.”
“All right,” said Dick quietly. “Although we’re not responsible for the things that have happened, we’ll pay a reasonable damage charge if you promptly take into your carriage and carry to the inn a man who has been seriously injured here and may be dying. I’ll pay you for your trouble with him, too.”
Although still suspicious and doubtful, the landlord was somewhat mollified.
“How did it happen?” he asked, as he stooped and peered down at the injured man.
“There’s the carriage,” explained Brad, “smashed a whole lot. I opine they had a runaway. Don’t waste time in asking other questions. Time is powerful precious to-night, and every minute counts.”
The injured wretch groaned as they raised him and placed him in the carriage, which the driver had already turned about. The driver proved to be the hostler, who reminded Dick that he had not received the pound note promised him.
“I’ll pay you as soon as we get back to the tavern,” was the promise. “Had no time to do it before.”