“Master! master!” shrieked Mrs Fidler. “Oh, there you are! Oh, Master Tom, don’t say he’s dead.”
Tom shook his head feebly; he could not say anything. Then, as he felt himself lifted up, he heard the Vicar say—
“Oh dear me; I don’t know—I’m afraid I’m a good deal hurt.”
Then quite a cloud gathered about them, and with his ears still singing, Tom felt himself lifted out, water was sprinkled over his face, and he began to see things more clearly; but every word spoken sounded small and distant, while the faces of David, Mrs Fidler, and the people who gathered about them in a scared way looked misty and strange. Then he heard the Vicar’s voice.
“Thank you—yes, thank you,” he said; “I’m getting better.”
“Bones broke, sir?” said David.
“No, I think not; see to poor Mr Brandon. I was thrown against the wall, right across; I can’t quite get my breath yet, and I’m as if I was deaf. Ah, Tom, my boy, how are you?”
“I don’t know, sir, I don’t think I’m hurt; but ask the people not to shout so, it goes through my head.” Then, as if he had suddenly recollected something, “Where’s uncle?”
“He’s coming to, my dear,” said Mrs Fidler. “I think he’s coming to.”
And now Tom saw that they were lying on the newly-made grass-plot outside the mill, and that his uncle was being attended by Mrs Fidler and another woman.