“It’s of no use, Miss Grayson,” he said, “but his master shall certainly be summoned for this. How dare he place those ferocious bulls in a field through which there is a right of way? O my poor boy! my poor boy! He’s dead!—he’s dead!”
“He ain’t,” said Dexter sharply.
“Shall I carry him, sir?” said the butcher’s man, forgetful of the fact that he would come off terribly greasy on the helpless boy’s black clothes.
“No, man,” cried Sir James. “Go and watch over those ferocious beasts, and see that they do not injure any one else.”
“Did they hurt him, sir!” said the man eagerly.
“Hurt him! Look,” cried Sir James indignantly.
“He ain’t hurt,” said Dexter sturdily. “Only frightened. There was a chap at our school used to go like that. He’s fainting, that’s what he is doing. You lay him down, and wait till I come back.”
Dexter ran to the river, and, without a moment’s hesitation, plunged in his new cap, and brought it back, streaming and dripping, with as much water as he could scoop up.
Too nervous even to oppose the boy’s order, Sir James had lowered his son to the ground, and, as he lay on the grass, Helen bathed and splashed his face with the water, till it was gone.
“I’ll soon fetch some more,” cried Dexter.