“No,” he said hoarsely; “a nasty grip. Tell that girl not to beat the mare. It was not wise.”
“Now, how is he?” cried Mr Elthorne, coming back. “Help him in. Send one of the grooms for the doctor.”
“No, no, sir,” said Beck, with a faint laugh, as he held up the hand deeply indented by the mare’s teeth. “It’s nothing to mind. Shan’t be a one-armed Greenwich pensioner this time.”
“Oh, my dear boy! my dear boy!” cried an excited voice, and Aunt Anne came rushing out of the window with a cup and saucer. “Here, drink this.”
“Anne! Don’t be so foolish,” cried her brother. “He doesn’t want tea.”
“But there’s brandy in it, Ralph,” protested the lady. “Drink it, my dear; it will do you good.”
“Thanks,” said Beck, raising his injured hand to take the cup, but letting it fall again. “Not this time,” he said with a laugh, and taking the cup with his left he drained it. “That’s better, Mrs Barnett,” he said. “There, I’m very sorry, Mr Elthorne, I’ve made quite an upset.”
“And I’m very glad, my boy,” replied his host. “What a horrible mishap!”
“How is he?” cried Dana, cantering up with her sister.
“Oh, it’s nothing—nothing at all.”