“But, Neil, dear—”
“Don’t stop to question. I know nothing yet.”
“But hadn’t you better send a groom at once for a doctor?”
“Confound it all, sir!” cried Beck in a low voice, “can’t you see that Mr Elthorne is in a skillful surgeon’s hands?”
Sir Cheltnam gave him an angry look, and turned his back, while Beck, in the matter of fact, cool fashion of a sailor in a time of emergency, bent down over Neil.
“Can I help you?” he said quietly.
“Eh? Thanks, no. I can do nothing till I get him to bed. Poor old dad!” he muttered to himself. “I little thought I was coming for this.”
He had placed the injured man’s head in an easy position, and in his cursory examination found that no limb was broken or joint dislocated; but Elthorne was perfectly insensible, and the young surgeon dreaded the crushing in of ribs and some internal injury.
Meantime the strong, hale, imperious man of a few minutes earlier lay there, breathing painfully, while those about him were too much occupied to notice the soft, dull sound of horse’s hoofs approaching fast.
Neil started as a shadow was thrown across him, and a sharp, metallic voice cried: