“It must have been him,” whispered Dick. “He had lost his way.”
“Then let him find it again,” grumbled Tom, “instead of watching us.”
“But perhaps there is something the matter. Mr Thorpeley, Mr Thorpeley!”
Dick laid his hand upon the man’s shoulder and shook him, but there was no response.
“Is he dead?” said Tom in an awe-stricken whisper.
“Dead!” cried Dick, leaping up and shrinking away at the suggestion. “No, he can’t be. He’s quite warm,” he added, going down on his knee again to shake the recumbent man, who now uttered a low groan.
“What shall we do, Dick?” said Tom huskily. “I hate him, but we can’t leave him here.”
“Well,” said Dick, “I’m not very fond of him, but it would be like leaving anybody to die to go away now. We must carry him down to the boat.”
“Come on then, quick!”
Dick placed his hands beneath the constable’s arms and locked his fingers across his breast, while Tom turned his back as he got between the man’s legs, stooped in turn, and proceeded to lift them as if they were the handles of a wheel-barrow.