“No, sir; haven’t seen or heard of any lately; we keep too sharp a look-out. Why, the young gent has got it severely. Some one’s been knocking of him about.”
“Don’t stop to talk,” cried the doctor. “I must have him home directly.”
“Here, how is he?” cried a bluff voice; and Rounds now came up, dabbing his scratched and bleeding face with his handkerchief.
“Bad, bad, Rounds,” said the doctor.
“Bad? Ay, he is. But, halloo, who is been doing this?”
He looked around at his fellow-townsmen, and then at Vane’s fellow-pupils so fiercely that Gilmore said quickly:
“Not I, Mr Rounds.”
“Silence!” cried the doctor angrily. “It is of vital importance that my nephew should be carried home at once.”
“Oh, we’ll manage that, sir,” said one of the constables as he slipped off his greatcoat and spread it on the ground. “Now, if we lift him and lay him upon that, and half-a-dozen take hold of the sides and try to keep step, we can get him along.”
“Yes, that’s right,” cried the doctor, superintending the lifting, which drew a faint groan from Vane. “Poor lad!” he said; “but I’m glad to hear that. Now then, better keep along this side of the stream till we can cut across to the lane. Here, I want a good runner.”