The other nodded and let his head sink on the chair-back.
“I’m dead,” he gasped, “but I done it.”
“Where is it? Give it to me.”
The man made a faint movement of assent, but evidently had not force enough to produce the paper and lay limp in the chair, Essex watching him impatiently. Presently he put his feeble hand out for the glass and drank again. The rattling loudness of his breathing moderated. Without moving his head he turned his eyes on Essex and said:
“I’m most killed—I’m all shook up. I fell coming down the tree, some way—I don’t know how far—but I got it all right. She fought like a wildcat, tried to burn it—but I got it. Then she hollered and a man answered. I knew it was a man’s voice, and I made a dash for the winder only jest in time. I’m cut somewheres—”
He raised the hand with the blood on it and fumbled at his coat-sleeve. The other hand was smeared with blood from the contact.
“Like a pig,” he said in a low voice, and pulled out a rag of handkerchief which he tried to push up his sleeve; “I’m cut somewheres all right, but I don’t know where.”
“Give me the paper and take your things off. You’re dripping all over everything,” said Essex, extending his hand.
Harney sat up.
“I dunno how I done it,” he said; “how I got down. The man was right on my heels. When I fell I saw him, pullin’ her up on her feet—I saw that through the winder. Then I riz up and I went—God, how I went!”