Into the sitting-room he carried the wounded man, and placed him upon a large sofa near the window. Mrs. Stubbles followed, and stood over her husband, wringing her hands in despair.
"Are you much hurt, Simie?" she asked. "Shall I send for the doctor?"
"Shut up your bawling!" her husband ordered. "I'm not killed, though I thought I was at first. Get some warm water and bathe my bruises. Confound that teamster! I'll discharge him at once. What business had he to drive in front of the house and then talk back to me as he did? When is Ben coming back?"
"He expected to get home this morning," Mrs. Stubbles replied.
"He expected to do so, did he? H'm, he's always expecting to do things he never does. He should have been here to look after the haying. I've got too many things on my mind already without having to bother with that."
"Don't be too hard on the dear boy, Simie. He is to bring the girls, you know. They must have delayed him."
"Yes, yes, that's just like you; always excusing Ben, the worthless scamp. If he were as interested in business as he is in running around in the car and spending so much time in the city, what a help he would be to me. But hurry up with that water, can't you? My, I'm sore!"
"You won't need me any more now, I suppose," Douglas remarked when Mrs.
Stubbles had left the room. "I might as well get to work."
"Who are you, anyway?" the injured man asked, turning his little squinting eyes upon Douglas' face. For the first time he seemed to realise that it was a stranger who had assisted him.
"I am John Handyman, Jake Jukes' help," was the reply. "I have come to give you a hand with the hay this afternoon."