As he spoke he gazed searchingly at the great workman.
“Ay, squire; it is a straänge awkard thing.”
Mr Winthorpe gazed in his great frank face again; and then, with his lips compressed, he went to the bed-side of the injured man.
“Bad business,” said Hickathrift; “but lads mustn’t starve because a constable’s shot. Coom along. Here, missus, let’s hev bit o’— Nay, she’s gone to see the neighbours, and hev a bit o’ ruckatongue.” (A gossip.)
That did not much matter, for Hickathrift knew the ways of his own house; and in a very short time had placed a loaf and a piece of cold bacon before the hungry boys.
This they attacked furiously, for now that they were relieved of the responsibility of the injured man, their hunger had asserted itself. But they had not partaken of many mouthfuls before they heard the squire’s voice outside, in hurried conversation with Hickathrift.
“Yes, I sent him off directly on the cob,” the squire said; “but it must be some hours before the doctor can get here.”
“Think he’s very badly, squire?” came next, in Hickathrift’s deep bass.
“No, not very bad as to his wound, my lad; but this is a terrible business.”
“Ay, mester, it is trubble. Straänge thing to hev first one man shot and then another. Say, squire, hope it wean’t be our turn next.”