Alvar felt as if he had been shot.
“Ride on,” he said, breathlessly; then seized the driver of the trap by the shoulder—“Drive fast; I will give you five pounds if you will drive fast. My brother is ill; he will want me.”
“Ay, sir—all right, sir,” said the lad, lashing up his horse.
Alvar felt as if a telegraph would have been slow; but he folded his arms, and sat like a statue till they reached the door, when he sprang out, and at the foot of the stairs saw Jack.
“Alvar! you here!” he exclaimed.
“What is it?—where is he?—what has happened?—tell me!” cried Alvar.
“Cherry went to Hazelby, of course, to clear Chris, as you were out of the way. He was so done up when he came back, and seems so evidently in for just such a bad attack as he had before, that granny, who came back here with me, sent for Mr Adamson. Yes, he is in bed; he was wet through.”
Jack’s face was like thunder; but Alvar dashed past him upstairs, and opened the door of his brother’s room.
Cheriton was sitting up in bed. He had recovered a little from the exhaustion of his hasty ride, and though suffering much pain and oppression, was spending some of the little breath he had left, in trying to explain matters to his grandmother.
“You always were a perverse lad, or you would not be using your voice now, Cherry,” she said. “When your brother comes back, I shall give him a piece of my mind.”