“I did,” gasped Chris, who had scrambled to his feet, trembling in every limb.
“Who called for help?” shouted Griggs.
“I! Help!” came again.
“That you, Bourne?” said the doctor.
“Yes,” came in a choking voice as of some one being suffocated.
“Oh, it’s father!” shrieked Ned, and he rushed in the direction of the sound, just as there was a snarling, worrying sound and the breaking of wood as if a heavy body was rushing among the trees.
“Ah!” came in Bourne’s voice, loudly. “No, my boy, not hurt, but I thought I was gone.”
The speaker was the centre of a little group now, two of whom struck matches, and Wilton produced a lanthorn, which was lit and held up, to disclose the face of Bourne, covered with blood, and his jacket hanging down below his waist, literally ripped up.
“Help him to lie down,” said the doctor anxiously. “Now, old fellow, tell me, where are you wounded?”
“Only in my jacket, I hope,” was the reply, given cheerfully enough. “Who shot the brute?”