“He’s got one o’ them poaching guns, you see, with a short barrel as unscrews in the middle, and he must ha’ been taking it to pieces when it was loaded, and shot hisself when running among the bushes.”
“Why, it’s Magglin!” I shouted excitedly.
“What!” cried the keeper, holding the lantern lower, and Polly uttered a cry. “Magglin it is!” he said, as the man opened his eyes, and gazed wildly up at the lantern.
“Where are you hurt, my lad?” said the keeper quietly.
“My arm! my arm!” groaned the man piteously.
The keeper took out his knife, and, giving Mercer the lantern to hold, deliberately slit up the sleeves of the injured man’s jacket and shirt.
“Hah!” he ejaculated. “He’s put the whole charge o’ shot through his arm, above the elbow;” and, hurriedly taking a piece of cord from his jacket pocket, Hopley made a rough tourniquet, and stopped the bleeding as much as he could.
“You, Polly,” he said as he worked, “go down to the house and see Sir Orkus. Tell him all about it, and ask him to send help, and some one off for the surgeon. One of the young gents’ll go with you, I dessay.”
“I’ll go with her,” said Mercer, and they hurried away.
“There,” said Hopley, as he finished his rough dressing of the wound, “I can’t do no more, and we can’t carry him to my place. We must wait.”