"No," was the answer; "as bad as bad can be. Our mate has got hurt—badly hurt, too."
"Where is he?"
"In the cart."
The man gave a long whistle.
"The devil he is! This is a pretty kettle of fish, upon my word. What is to be done?"
"He must be left here, Parker,—that's the long and short of it. There is not the least fear of his being traced here; we have never seen a soul since we left Canterbury."
"I don't suppose there is much fear," the man said gruffly; "but if he should be, I am done for."
"Not a bit of it, Parker; you have only to show the receipt we gave you, and stick to the story we agreed upon, and which happens to be true. Three men called upon you, and said that they wanted to hire a light cart for a day, and that they heard you let one out sometimes. You told them that as you did not know them, you could not trust the horse with strangers, and so they left thirty-five pounds in your hands as security,—that they brought back the cart in the morning, and said one of their number had fallen out and got hurt, and that you agreed to let him stay for a day or so till he got well; and that you did not find, till the other two men had left, that the one who remained had been wounded by a bullet."
Here a slight groan from the cart called their attention to it.
"But what on earth am I to do with him?"