“Oh, take care, father!” cried Polly. “Let me go first—he wouldn’t shoot a woman.”
“Want to make me ashamed of myself and get hiding behind a gal’s petticutt!” cried Bob. “G’long with you.”
He strode forward with the lantern for a few yards, and then held it down over the spot from which a low groaning had come, but which had ceased for some minutes now.
It was very horrible, but the weird scene beneath those heavy boughs, with the keeper’s burly form thrown up by the yellow glow of the lantern and the shadowy aspect of the trees around, with the light faintly gleaming on their trunks, fascinated us so that we followed Hopley with his daughter to where he stood.
“Now, squire,” he said, “where are you hurt?”
The man, who seemed to be lying all of a heap, uttered a groan, and Hopley held the light nearer.
“I’m fear’d he’s got it badly, Polly,” growled the keeper. “Hah!”
“Oh, father!”
“None o’ my doing, my lass. Here, all on you. This is a madgistrit’s business, and I don’t want to get credit for what I never did. So just look.”
He held the lantern down for us to see.