"Groan'd some 'bout midnight."
Swipes looked very sad, and the stranger's eyes passed from face to face with anxious looks.
"Ain't goin' to bleed to death?"
"Not zactly that, but mortification's goin' to set in, and he cannot stand it long, when that takes him."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the Colonel.
"Very strange case!" added the Squire.
"Great loss!" rejoined Bates.
The stranger, who was none other than the junior member of the firm of Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale, dry goods merchants, doing business in the city of New York, and who was out at Puddleford hunting up the firm of Whistle & Sharp, a couple of debtors, whose account had been in the rear for some time—the stranger, I say, became very anxious to hear the particulars of the man whose life was in jeopardy—and he exclaimed before he thought—"What is it, gentlemen?—who's hurt?"
"Why," said Ike, his face all the while cast iron, and his eyes steadily fixed on his game; "why, you see, old mother Gantlet was took with a violent mis'ry in her head—sent for Dr. Teazle—our village doctor here—the old 'oman said her head would bust—doctor said it wouldn't—the old 'oman said it would—the doctor said he'd tie it up—and he did try to tie it up, stranger—and while he was busy, her head did bust, and blew off the doctor's thumb and fore-finger"—and Ike shoved a man into the king-row and crowned him, without a look at Mr. Farindale, his face all the while as rigid as a tombstone.
Mr. Farindale gave a long whistle, and immediately called for a cigar; the Colonel dropped a quid of tobacco into his hand, and gave it a toss across the bar-room; Longbow shot forth a dignified spit into the fire, or rather it seemed to shoot out itself, without moving a muscle, and Bates stroked his chin several times with his left hand.