“Fancy! That poor young chap nearly killing him!”
“And serve him right!” shouted out Jerry, angrily. “Mr Frayne must have made him so mad he couldn’t bear himself, and he hit out hard. It was only an accident, after all.”
“But we should have been in it, Mr Brigley, even if he got off; and there would have been the inquest, too. Things have been a bit quiet here lately.”
“Well, you’ll have your inquest, after all,” said Jerry, bitterly.
“Humph! Not so sure, sir. But it’s a very, very sad business, Mr Brigley, and I must be going now. Thank you. Quite refreshing, sir! Good-night; and wish you well out of the trouble.”
“Wish us well out of the trouble!” growled Jerry, bitterly. “As if there ever would be any way out of it. On’y to think—him upstairs getting better, and his people telegraphing to say they’ll come over at once, and his cousin lying there out in the cold river, who knows how deep? It only wanted this to make me wish—”
Jerry did not finish his sentence, but took a letter out of his pocket, read it through, and uttered a derisive laugh.
“Yes; it only wanted this to help make me happy. Well, it wasn’t so very much, but it’s gone; and serve me right for being such a fool!”
Just then a bell rang, and he went to answer it.
“The doctor says we need not sit up, Brigley,” said his master, sadly. “You are tired. I shall want you no more to-night. The nurse will get anything the doctor requires.”