Tregelly caught him up in his arms as if he were a child, bore him into the hut, threw him on the bed, and tore off his jacket so as to expose the place to the light.
“Yes, he has knifed you, my son,” said Tregelly hoarsely; “but it’s a mere scratch. He meant it, though, but reached over a bit too far.”
“You are saying this to calm me,” said Dallas excitedly. “He struck me a tremendous blow.”
“Yes, my son; but it must have been with his wrist. I’m not cheating you. It’s the simple truth. It isn’t worth tying up.”
“Thank God!” sighed Dallas. “I suppose I’m a bit of a coward, but the horror of it made me feel sick as a dog.”
“Such a crack as he must have given you would have made me feel sick, my son. Did it knock you down?”
“No; I closed with him, but he tripped and threw me heavily.”
“Well, that would make you feel sick, my son, without anything else. Here, on with your jacket again, and let’s get out into the darkness. It’s like asking the beggar to come and pot us, standing here.”
They hurried out directly after, to stand listening; but all was still.
“Now then,” said Tregelly, “we’d best get the sledge and make our way home; but what do you think of my gentleman now? Oughtn’t we to scrunch him like one would a black beetle?”