But few words were spoken in the cottage until Dr. Green arrived. Ned's head was aching so that he was forced to lie down. Polly from time to time moistened Bill's lips with a few drops of brandy. George had been ordered off to bed, and Luke sat gazing at the fire, wishing that there was something he could do.
At last the doctor arrived; the messenger had told him the nature of the case, and he had come provided with lint, plaster, and bandages.
“Well, Ned,” he asked as he came in, “have you been in the wars again?”
“I am all right, doctor. I had a knock on the head which a day or two will put right; but I fear Bill is very seriously hurt.”
The doctor at once set to to examine the bandages.
“You have done them up very well,” he said approvingly; “but the blood is still oozing from them. I must dress them afresh; get me plenty of hot water, Polly, I have brought a sponge with me. Can you look on without fainting?”
“I don't think I shall faint, sir,” Polly said quietly; “if I do, feyther will take my place.”
In a quarter of an hour the wounds were washed, drawn together, and bandaged. There was but little fresh bleeding, for the lad's stock of life blood had nearly all flowed away.
“A very near case,” the doctor said critically; “as close a shave as ever I saw. Had the wound on the face been a quarter of an inch nearer the eyebrow it would have severed the temporal artery. As it is it has merely laid open the jaw. Neither of the other wounds are serious, though they might very well have been fatal.”
“Then you think he will get round, doctor?” Ned asked in a low tone.