"Then you must hold him while I do. Stop! I'll take him to the house; you must bathe his head while I'm gone."
Another minute and the boy lay in the rectory study, upon the little bed in which Carlton had fought death and won three years before; yet another, and up limped Jasper, crooked with pain, out of breath, but gasping for news of Georgie as though he had been a week on the way.
"Has he come to yet?"
"No, and there's a lot of blood. We must stop it if we can. Wait till I get a sponge and some water."
Jasper Musk was bending over the boy, looking huger than ever upon his knees, when Carlton returned to the room.
"What have I done?" he was muttering. "What have I done? What have I done?"
"Nothing that you could help," replied Carlton, briskly. "Now you keep squeezing this sponge out over his head—never mind the bed—till I get back."
Georgie lay insensible for hours. It was not the loss of blood, which looked much worse than it was, and ceased altogether with the dressing of the wound. There was, however, somewhat serious concussion underneath; and Dr. Marigold bluntly refused to guarantee the event.
"The pity is to move him," he grumbled towards night. "But is there anybody here who could nurse the boy?"
"Only myself," said Carlton, who had been quiet and quick to help all the afternoon.