“No, my man: you may tell the Major that it was a narrow escape.”
“Poor lad!” muttered the soldier, going down on one knee, and making Colonel Mellersh look at him with surprise, as he took one cold hand, to hold it between his own for a few moments.
“Can we carry him to my house, gen’lemen,” said Fisherman Dick roughly. “’Taint very far.”
“No, my man, no,” said the doctor; “he has only been stunned. Narrow escape, though. He’ll walk home.”
“Do you mean it, sir?” cried James Bell. “Beg pardon, sir. Only glad the Major won’t have to go. I’ll get back to barracks now. He’ll be wanting me.”
“All right, my man. Take those confounded pistols with you. There: be off.”
The soldier placed the pistols in the case, and, saluting both gentlemen, hurried away by the shore, while Fisherman Dick touched his hat again, and said in a whisper:
“I’ve got a drop of right Nantes sperrit at my cottage, gentlemen, if you can bring him in there.”
“No, no,” said the doctor. “There, he’s coming round fast now,” and he pointed to Linnell’s staring eyes.
The doctor was right. Half an hour later, with no worse trouble to combat than a fierce headache, and the wound smarting under its strapping, Richard Linnell was able to take the Colonel’s arm and walk home, a warning to other young men not to attempt to climb up the cliff to the Downs, and risk falling and cutting their heads!