Oswin put his hand mechanically to the feet of the man who was lying helplessly across the saddle.
“Not dead, not dead,” he whispered.
“Only dead drunk, unless his skull is fractured, my boy,” laughed the major. “We'll take him to the stables, of course, George?”
“No, no, to the house,” said Colonel Gerald.
“Run on and get the key of the stables, George,” said the major authoritatively. “Don't you suppose in any way that your house is to be turned into an hospital for dipsomaniacs. Think of the child.”
Colonel Gerald made a little pause, and then hastened forward to awaken the groom to get the key of the stables, which were some distance from the cottage.
“By gad, Markham, I'd like to spill the brute into that pond,” whispered the major to Oswin, as they waited for the colonel's return.
“How did you find him? Did you see any accident?” asked Oswin.
“We met the horse trotting quietly along the avenue without a rider, and when we went on among the trees we found the fellow lying helpless. George said he was killed, but I knew better. Irish whisky, my boy, was what brought him down, and you will find that I am right.”
They let the man slide from the saddle upon a heap of straw when the stable door was opened by the half-dressed groom.