The trap was one of the old-fashioned rat traps, made to kill and hold, with a smart spring, and the jaws on the inside armed with teeth, like a saw.
The pain and surprise combined caused Rich to utter an involuntary scream, that, breaking on the stillness of midnight, alarmed the household.
Mrs. Clemens lay in bed, screaming alternately, "Murder," and "Thieves," at the top of her voice. Dan rushed down stairs in his night-gown, when Rich called to him, and explained matters.
By the time Dan had procured a light, Rich had drawn his foot out of the trap, and Mrs. Clemens and the hired girl made their appearance.
"Mr. Richardson," said Mrs. Clemens, "you have hurt your foot terribly. The blood is oozing through your stocking. Let me make a slippery elm poultice, and put on it."
"It is a mere scratch, Mrs. Clemens—only skin deep."
"There is some water in the tea-kettle that must be blood-warm now. Betty, bring a small tub, for Mr. Richardson to bathe his foot, and a sponge."
"There is no need of it, Mrs. Clemens. Cold water is better. I can wash it in my chamber."
The night was fast spending. It would be daylight by the time he reached the cemetery. Rich had no time to spare, and wished Mrs. Clemens was in another hemisphere.
"At least, Mr. Richardson, let me get you some bandages, and some new rum and wormwood, to bathe it in. Daniel will take the things up stairs."