"Oh, Mont, isn't it awful?" she exclaimed, catching him by the arm. "What makes you so pale? What is that man talking about?"
"I can't say, exactly," he replied, in an oddly unnatural voice. "My father's death is a mystery to me. This man can unravel it, I suppose, if he will," he added, as he knelt down, and turned Pooler once more on his back.
The face of the wounded man had lost all color, and his heart seemed to have stopped beating.
"If we only had some water it might help him," said Mont. "Although I can't make anything out of a case like this."
"There's a brook just outside," returned Deb. "Wonder if there is a cup anywhere around?"
In one corner he found a can, such as is used in preserving vegetables. It was empty, and, taking it outside, she washed it thoroughly, and returned with it full of pure, cold water, with which they bathed the wounded man's head.
"He is suffering more from the excitement than from the pistol shot," observed the young man, as he worked away.
"I suppose being surprised by those two men was the start of it," replied Deb.
The miser was rapidly regaining his color, and his forehead felt like fire. Soaking the handkerchief in the can, the girl bound it over his temples.
Presently Pooler grew restless. He did not open his eyes, but moved his body from side to side uneasily.