“You wrenched his arm, Hicky,” said Dick, “when you dragged him out.”
“Very sorry, Mester Dick.”
“Ugh!” cried the lad, who had laid his hand tenderly on their visitor’s shoulder.
“What is it?” cried Mrs Winthorpe.
“Blood. He has been hurt,” said Dick.
“Shot! Here,” said the young man in a whisper; and then his head sank down sidewise, and he fainted dead away.
Mr Marston’s faintly-uttered words sent a thrill through all present, but no time was wasted. People who live in out-of-the-way places, far from medical help, learn to be self-reliant, and as soon as Squire Winthorpe realised what was wrong he gave orders for the injured man to be carried to the couch in the dining parlour, where his wet jacket was taken off by the simple process of ripping up the back seam.
“Now, mother, the scissors,” said the squire, “and have some bandages ready. You, Dick, if it’s too much for you, go away. If it isn’t: stop. You may want to bind up a wound some day.”
Dick felt a peculiar sensation of giddy sickness, but he tried to master it, and stood looking on as the shirt sleeve was cut open, and the young man’s white arm laid bare to the shoulder, displaying an ugly wound in the fleshy part.
“Why, it’s gone right through, mother,” whispered the squire, shaking his head as he applied sponge and cold water to the bleeding wounds.