“Yes, but it may not have been an accident,” said the doctor.
This was in the evening, the doctor having ridden over again to see how his patient was getting on.
“Heaven forbid, sir,” said Marston warmly, “that I should suspect any man of such a cowardly cruel deed! Impossible, sir! I cannot recall having done any man wrong since I have been here. My lads like me.”
“How do you know that?” said the squire dryly. “Men somehow are not very fond of the master who is over them, and makes them fairly earn their wages.”
“Well, sir, I don’t know how to prove it,” said Marston, who was lying on a dimity-covered couch, “but—”
“Hallo!” cried the squire, leaping up and going to the window, as a loud and excited buzzing arose, mingled with the trampling of feet, which sounded plainly in the clear cold spring evening.
“Anything wrong?” said the doctor.
“Why, here’s a crowd of a hundred fellows armed with sticks!” cried the squire. “I believe they’ve got the rascal who fired the shot.”
“No!” said the doctor.
“Father! Mr Marston!” cried Dick, rushing up stairs and into the visitor’s bed-room; “here are all the drain-men—hundreds of them—Mr Marston’s men.”