“Yes; of course you didn’t mean to bring yourself down,” said the squire, smiling; “but what in the world, man, were you trying to shoot with bullets out here?”
The young engineer did not reply, but looked round from one to the other, and gave Mrs Winthorpe a grateful smile.
“Do you recollect where you left your gun?” said Dick eagerly, for the thought of the rust and mischief that would result from a night in the bog troubled him.
“Left my gun!” he said.
“Never mind now, Mr Marston,” said the squire kindly. “Your things are wet, and we’ll get you to bed. It’s a nasty wound, but it will soon get right again. I’m not a doctor, but I know the bone is not broken.”
“I did not understand you at first,” said the young engineer then. “You think I have been carrying a gun, and shot myself?”
“Yes, but never mind now,” said Mrs Winthorpe, kindly. “I don’t think you ought to talk.”
“No,” was the reply; “I will not say much; but I think Mr Winthorpe ought to know. Some one shot me as I was coming across the fen.”
“What!” cried Dick.
“Shot you!” said the squire.