“Ah, let him!” said the doctor. “Now, what are you going to do?” he said aloud; “catch the scoundrel who shot Mr Marston, and get him transported for life?”
“That’s what ought to be done to him,” said John Warren solemnly, as he looked straight away over the fen.
“Ay,” said Dave. “How do we know but what it may be our turn or Hickathrift’s next? It’s a straänge, bad thing.”
“I must talk it over with Mr Marston,” said the squire, “when he gets better, and then we shall see.”
Chapter Twelve.
The Patient’s Friends.
Mr Marston declared that he had not the most remote idea of having given any of his men offence, and then looked very serious about the question of bringing over the constables from the town to investigate the matter.
“It may have been an accident, Mr Winthorpe,” he said; “and if so, I should be sorry to get any poor fellow into trouble.”