Without other words they hurried into the carriage, driving like mad for the cottage, a mile away; all the worn look gone from Ruth's face.
“And you're not hurt, my boy?” asked Peter in a trembling voice—Jack's well hand in his own.
“No, only a few scratches, sir; that's all. Bolton's hand's in a bad way, though; lose two of his fingers, I'm afraid.”
“And how did you escape?”
“I don't know. I got out the best way I could. First thing I knew I was lying on the grass and some one was pouring water over my head; then they got me home and put me to bed.”
“And MacFarlane?”
“Oh, he came along with me. I had to help him some.”
Peter heaved a sigh of relief, then he asked:
“How did it happen?”
“Nobody knows. One of the shanty men might have dropped a box of fulminates. Poor fellow,—he never knew; they could find nothing of him,” Jack whispered behind his hand so Ruth would not hear.