“Better,” he whispered. “Faint—water.”
George Vine opened the cellarette, and gave him a little brandy, whose reviving power proved wonderful. But after heaving a deep sigh, he lay back with his forehead puckered.
“Hadn’t I better fetch Knatchbull, my lad?” said Uncle Luke gruffly, but with a kindly ring in his voice. “Cut on the back of your head. He’d soon patch it up.”
“No. Better soon,” said Leslie in a low voice. “Let me think.”
“Be on the look out,” whispered Uncle Luke to his brother. “Better not let Louise come in.”
Leslie’s eyes opened quickly, and he gazed from one to the other.
“Better not let her see you till you are better,” said Uncle Luke, taking the injured man into their confidence.
A piteous sigh escaped from Leslie, and he closed his eyes tightly.
“Poor boy!” said Uncle Luke, “he must have had an ugly fall. Missed his way in the dark, I suppose. George, you’ll have to keep him here to-night.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said George Vine uneasily, for his ears were on the strain to catch his child’s step, and her absence troubled him.