“I say, fellers,” said Marks, “you jist go round and pick up Tom, there, while I run and get on to my horse to go back for help,—that’s you;” and, without minding the hootings and jeers of his company, Marks was as good as his word, and was soon seen galloping away.
“Was ever such a sneaking varmint?” said one of the men; “to come on his business, and he clear out and leave us this yer way!”
“Well, we must pick up that feller,” said another. “Cuss me if I much care whether he is dead or alive.”
The men, led by the groans of Tom, scrambled and crackled through stumps, logs and bushes, to where that hero lay groaning and swearing with alternate vehemence.
“Ye keep it agoing pretty loud, Tom,” said one. “Ye much hurt?”
“Don’t know. Get me up, can’t ye? Blast that infernal Quaker! If it hadn’t been for him, I’d a pitched some on ’em down here, to see how they liked it.”
With much labor and groaning, the fallen hero was assisted to rise; and, with one holding him up under each shoulder, they got him as far as the horses.
“If you could only get me a mile back to that ar tavern. Give me a handkerchief or something, to stuff into this place, and stop this infernal bleeding.”
George looked over the rocks, and saw them trying to lift the burly form of Tom into the saddle. After two or three ineffectual attempts, he reeled, and fell heavily to the ground.
“O, I hope he isn’t killed!” said Eliza, who, with all the party, stood watching the proceeding.