“And doctor says there’s veins and artrys, mester,” said Hickathrift, huskily. “One’s bad and t’other’s worse. Which is it, mester?”
“I hope and believe there is no artery touched,” said the squire; “but we must run no risk. Hickathrift, my man, the doctor must be fetched. Go and send one of the men.”
“Nay, squire, I’ll go mysen,” replied the big wheelwright. “Did’st see his goon, Mester Dick?”
“No, I saw no gun.”
“Strange pity a man can’t carry a gun like a Chrishtun,” said the wheelwright, “and not go shutin hissen that way.”
The wheelwright went off, and the squire busied himself binding up the wounds, padding and tightening, and proving beyond doubt that no artery had been touched, for the blood was soon nearly staunched, while, just as he was finishing, and Mrs Winthorpe was drawing the sleeve on one side so as to secure a bandage with some stitches, something rolled on to the floor, and Dick picked it up.
“What’s that, Dick—money?”
“No, father; leaden bullet.”
“Ha! that’s it; nice thing to go through a man’s arm,” said the squire as he examined the roughly-cast ragged piece of lead. “We must look for his gun to-morrow. What did he expect to get with a bullet at a time like this? Eh? What were you trying to shoot, Marston?” said the squire, as he found that the young man’s eyes were open and staring at him.
“I—trying to shoot!”