Derrick pleaded for the man, and Bloxford yielded, but with a shrug of the shoulders and a dissenting shake of the head.
"All right," he said, grudgingly. "It's up to you, of course. But don't you forget what I told you when you and he had a shindy on board. He's the kind of man who'll wait and lay for you when he gets a chance."
Derrick laughed easily as he proceeded to count the money.
They drew good audiences for the whole of their stay, and then prepared to move on. As before, the heaviest of the responsibility fell on Derrick's shoulders, but it was made as light as possible for him by the good will the company bore him, which it expressed by rendering prompt obedience and willing assistance. Jackman had given no further trouble, but had gone about his work with a sullen demeanour, and he markedly avoided any meeting with Derrick, who treated him exactly as he treated every other member of the company.
On the morning of their departure Derrick was standing in the centre of the tent, superintending the displacement and packing up of the seats and other properties. He was immediately beneath a large and heavy circular lamp which afforded the principal light, and up above him was Jackman, who had been sent to lower it. He was waiting for the word from the chief baggage man, who was standing at a little distance from Derrick.
Derrick was moving away, when suddenly he heard a warning cry. He looked up and saw the mass of metal descending, though the baggage man had not given the word. It was a swift upward glance, and as swiftly he swerved aside. Then he felt a sharp but heavy pain on his shoulder, and fell. He was conscious of a number of voices shouting, of vague forms hurrying towards him, then all became a blank.
When he recovered consciousness he found himself lying in one of the living vans. He tried to move, but the upper part of his body felt as if it were made of lead. He opened his eyes and looked round him. Someone, a tall figure, bent over him, and laid a hand on his forehead. He looked up and, with a struggle for consciousness, saw that the face above him was Isabel's.
"What's the matter—what is it?" he asked, and, to his surprise and consternation, his voice sounded hollow and weak.
She dropped on her knees beside him, her hand still on his brow.
"You've been ill," she whispered. "Don't move. I don't think you ought to speak. Stay quite still."