“What’s the matter?” cried the doctor hurriedly. “Another pony hurt?—What!—Impossible!—Oh, the poor beast! The brave fellow! I can hardly believe it. Here, let’s lead him gently across, and I’ll see what I can do. Has he just crawled back?”
“No, father; he must have come in the night,” cried Chris. “We only just found that he was here.”
“We didn’t look at them before we went off this morning,” said Wilton.
“No, and I remember I reproached myself once for not doing so. But there, we’re giving all our sympathy to the pony. How are you, Chris, my boy?”
“All right now, father,” was the reply. “Seeing this poor fellow has made me forget my bruises.”
“But you are the better for your long sleep?”
“Yes, father; only a bit ashamed.”
“Never mind that.—Tut, tut, tut!” continued the doctor. “Lame in the off fore-foot. Some horrible wrench; cut in the flank. Why, he has three arrows in him,” continued the doctor, as he examined the poor beast while it limped along patiently by their side.
“But he’ll get better, father?” cried Chris excitedly.
“I hope so, my boy; but I am not a veterinary surgeon. Depend upon it, though, that I shall do my best.”