“Yes, he’s dead enough,” said someone, coarsely, and the words seemed to echo through Richard’s brain.
Then there was hurried talk about carrying him back to the town, calls for a gate or a shutter, and the little crowd constantly on the increase, till the pressure grew suffocating.
At last someone shouted—
“Here he is!” and Richard was conscious of a tall figure in black forcing its way through the crowd, scolding and ordering the people to keep back.
“How did this happen?” someone said, sharply; and Richard gazed up at the speaker, but made no reply, only stared with dilated eyes as a rapid examination was made and the rough bandage replaced.
Then, in a dreamy way, Richard Frayne saw that his cousin was lifted on to a gate, and a ragged kind of procession was formed, as the men who had raised the bars on to their shoulders stepped off together under the doctor’s direction; while he seemed to be, as the nearest relative, playing the part of chief mourner.
That march back appeared endless. People joined in, others stood in front of house and shop; and the buzzing of voices increased till, panting and flurried, the great heavy figure of Mr Draycott was seen approaching without his hat.
“Much hurt?”
“Can’t say yet, for certain,” rang ominously in Richard’s ears. “Fear the worst! I want Mr Shrubsole to be fetched!”
“I’ll go, sir; I’ll go!” came from a couple of boys; and then Richard felt Mr Draycott’s heavy hand upon his shoulder as they still went on.