“Reight!” cried Hickathrift, laconically; and, stooping down, they each took a hand, and half ran half waded through the black boggy mud, till they reached the path from which the young man had strayed.
“Poor chap! he were a bit scar’d to find himself in bog.”
“Pity he ventured that way,” said the squire.
“Here, Mr Marston, you’re all right now,” said Dick. “Can you get up and walk?”
There was no answer, but the young man tried to struggle up, and would have sunk down again had not the squire caught him round the waist.
“Poor lad! he’s bet out. Not used to our parts,” said Hickathrift. “Here, howd hard, sir. Help me get him o’ my back like a sack, and I’ll run him up to the house i’ no time.”
It seemed the best plan; and as the young man uttered a low moan he was half lifted on to Hickathrift’s broad back, and carried toward the house.
“Run on, Dick, and tell your mother to mix a good glass of hollands and water,” said the squire.
Dick obeyed, and the steaming glass of hot spirits was ready as the wheelwright bore in his load, and the young man was placed in a chair before the glowing kitchen fire.
“My arm!” he said faintly.