"He's dead, I think."
She heard McGuire's sudden gasp and saw Aunt Tillie come running.
"He's got to be put to bed—Aunt Tillie," she pleaded.
"Of course," said McGuire, finding his voice suddenly, "Of course—at once. The blue room, Mrs. Bergen. We'll carry him up. Send Stryker."
And Aunt Tillie ran indoors.
Peter was still quite unconscious, but between them they managed to get him upstairs.
McGuire seemed now galvanized into activity and while the others cut Peter's coat away and found the wound he got Hammonton and a doctor on the 'phone. It was twelve miles away but he promised to be at Black Rock House inside half an hour.
"Twenty minutes and you won't regret it. Drive like Hell. It's a matter of life or death."
Meanwhile, Aunt Tillie, with anxious glances at Beth, had brought absorbent cotton, clean linen, a basin of water and a sponge, and Stryker and Brierly washed the wound, while McGuire rushed for his bottle and managed to force some whisky and water between Peter's teeth. The bullet they found had gone through the body and had come out at the back, shattering the shoulder-blade. But the hemorrhage had almost ceased and the wounded man's heart was still beating faintly.
"It's the blood he's lost," muttered Brierly sagely.