“Master won’t find they ten acres of hops washed if he comes ’ome to-night.”
“No,” said Joey; “but you can’t wash hops when you’re finding sojers nearly dead in the alleys.—An’ here’s the water. Ain’t hurried yerself much, lad.”
“Who’s to run up hill with a pail o’ water?” grumbled the man as Smiler began bathing the edge of the wound, after pouring a little water between the lips, but apparently without any effect.
Then the smoking went on in silence for a while, till Smiler asked whether the heart was still beating.
“Ay, I keep feeling it,” said Joe. “S’pose one o’ you goes up in one o’ the cowls and looks out: you’ll see if the pleeceman’s coming. I’m getting a bit tired o’ holding my hand to his heart.”
“Let me do it now,” said Smiler.
“Nay, I begun it, and I’m going on till the pleeceman comes.”
One of the men had climbed up the steps at once, and they heard his heavy feet as he crossed the great loft where the hops were pressed heavily into the pockets. Five minutes after he was down again to announce that the constable was on his way, and a few minutes after the one man stationed at the tiny hamlet a short distance away came in, red-faced and eager, for, saving over a little egg-stealing and mild poaching, it was rare for his services to be called for.
Hence he bustled in, looking very important, and drew out a note-book and pencil, examined the sufferer, asked a few questions, made a show of putting down the answers, with a sad hieroglyphical result, and then turned to Joey.
“Now, then,” he said, “I’ll take charge of him; and one of you must go for the doctor.”