“Dead?” whispered the Vicar, as Uncle Richard carefully made his examination, just as he had many a time played medicine-man or surgeon to a sick or injured coolie.
He made some answer, but it was drowned by the dog, which threw up its head and uttered a mournful howl, while a feeling of awe made those around look on in silence.
“You are in too great a hurry, my good friend,” said Uncle Richard then, as he turned to the dog. “There’s a little life in your master yet, but one arm is broken, and I’m afraid that he is badly crushed.”
Tom drew a breath full of relief, while his uncle rose to his feet.
“I think, Maxted, if you will go on first, and warn his grandmother, and have a bed ready, and also get the doctor there, we will make a litter of a couple of poles and some fir-boughs, and carry him home. It would be better for you to go to the old woman than for Tom.”
“Yes,” said the Vicar, who set aside his regular quiet, sedate bearing, and ran off through the wood at a sharp trot.
“Out with your knife, Tom,” cried Uncle Richard; “cut a piece three feet long off one of those ropes, and unravel it into string.”
Tom set to work, while the carpenter cut off a couple of straight fir-boughs, which David trimmed quickly with the axe, and a few cross-pieces were sawn off about thirty inches long.
Then Tom stared in wonder to see how rapidly his uncle bound the short pieces of wood across the long, afterwards weaving in small pieces of the green fir, and forming a strong, fairly soft litter.
“Not the first time by many, Tom,” he said. “Accidents used to be frequent in clearing forest in the East. There: that will do. Now for our patient.”