Mr. Sauls suddenly opened his eyes and looked at Tom.
"Not at all!" he said. "I'm not dead yet." And then he relapsed into unconsciousness; and, for once in his life, Tom was startled.
"I don't say but what it's queer to ha' one's foot knock up agin a murdered man when one's mind's runnin' on naught but crops," he explained afterwards; "but I ain't a maid wi' nerves; I didn't mind that. It wur his eyes openin' and fixin' me, just as I wur thinkin' there'd ha' to be an inquest, as did gi'e me a bit of a turn. Besides, he'd no business to come to life; he had ought to ha' been killed wi' a mark that deep at the bottom o' his skull."
The doctor, when at last they got one, was of the same opinion; the wound would have killed most men, he said; and why Mr. Sauls didn't die, remained a mystery, except, of course, that he was treated with exceptional skill.
George clung to life with that tenacity which he showed in everything. He was dangerously ill for a fortnight; then began to recover, to the surprise of every one, except his mother, who had been quite hopeful all along, and had replied cheerfully to an attempt to warn her of the probable end.
"Danger? My dear sir, it will be dangerous for the man who tried to murder George! but, please God, my son will live to see that villain hang."
Mr. Sauls had been carried to the farm, that being the only house near. Tom had bound up the patient's head as best he could, regretting that the preacher's more practised and skilful fingers were not available. It seemed barely possible that Mr. Sauls could live till further aid should arrive.
Mr. Thorpe rode into N—— and gave notice to the police of what had occurred. He went also to the inn, and, assisted by the landlord, searched for some clue as to the whereabouts of the unfortunate man's relatives. They found a letter torn in half, and lying in the fireplace of the room Mr. Sauls had slept in. Piecing it together, they made out the signature:—
"Your affectionate old mother,
"Rebecca Sauls."
And the address: "20 Hill Street".