“I swear I will,” cried Huish.
“So help you God.”
“So help me, God!” exclaimed Huish, “and help me now,” he added in agony, “for he is dying.”
“Here—below there—Hi!” shouted a voice from the pathway above. “What’s the matter?”
“Quick, quick, help!” cried Huish, and his appeal was answered by rapid footsteps, the rustling of bushes, and directly after, a short, broad-shouldered young man, with a large head and keen grey eyes, was at his side.
“I say,” he cried; “struggle up above, broken fence, man killed!”
Huish started back, staring at him with dilated eyes, and then by an effort he exclaimed:
“Quick—run—the nearest doctor, man.”
“Six miles away,” was the sharp reply. “I’m a sucker—medical stoo,” he added; and pulling off his coat, he rapidly rolled it into a pad for a pillow before proceeding in a business-like way to examine the fallen man’s injuries. “I say, this is bad—arm broken—hip joint out—hold still, old fellow, I won’t hurt you,” he said, as his patient moaned. “You’d better go for help. I’ll stay. Leave me that flask; and, I say, just see if my fishing tackle’s all right: I left it up at the top.” Then, as if inspired by the words uttered by the injured man a few minutes before, he exclaimed: “I say, I don’t know that I ought to let you go; is this manslaughter or murder?”
“No,” moaned Millet, unclosing his eyes, and speaking in a hoarse whisper—“my old friend—an accident—sir—an accident.”