By breakfast-time Farmer Tallington had heard the news, and was over with Tom, each ready to listen to the squire’s and Dick’s account; and before nine o’clock Dave and John Warren, who had come over to Hickathrift’s, to find him from home, came on to the Toft to talk with Dick and Tom, and stare and gape.
“Why, theer heven’t been such a thing happen since the big fight wi’ the smugglers and the king’s men,” said Dave.
To which John Warren assented, and said it was “amaäzin’.”
“And who do you think it weer?” said Dave, as he stood scratching his ear; and upon being told the squire’s opinion, he shook his head, and said there was no knowing.
“It’s a bad thing, Mester Dick, bringing straängers into a plaäce. Yow nivver know what characters they’ve got. Why, I do believe—it’s a turruble thing to say—that some of they lads at work at big dree-ern hevven’t got no characters at all.”
“Here be Hickathrift a-coming wi’ doctor,” said John Warren.
And sure enough there was the doctor on his old cob coming along the fen road, with Hickathrift striding by his side, the man of powder and draught having been from home with a patient miles away when Hickathrift reached the town, and not returning till five o’clock.
“He’ll do right enough, squire,” said the doctor. “Young man like he is soon mends a hole in his flesh. You did quite right; but I suppose the bandaging was young Dick’s doing, for of all the clumsy bungling I ever saw it was about the worst.”
Dick gave his eye a peculiar twist in the direction of his father, who was giving him a droll look, and then they both laughed.
“Very delicately done, doctor,” said the squire. “There, Dick, as he has put it on your shoulders you may as well bear it.”