“But what’s the matter with his arm?” Jinny asked anxiously.
“Didn’t you see his sling?” called Elijah proudly.
“Broken?” Jinny murmured, paling.
“Only a simple fracture.” He puffed complacently at his pipe, forgetting it was empty.
“You’ve got to go back, Caleb, and help the poor lad,” said Martha, with renewed agitation.
“Then you might as well get my hand-bag from my room,” Elijah added. “I didn’t think of it in the rush.”
Ravens, labouring mightily with his pole to larboard, pushed the barge back to the window, and as Caleb obediently clambered in again, Martha, growing calmer, began telling Jinny how Will had swum out to the stable to save the horses, but had only got his arm kicked for his pains. And then, of course, he couldn’t help her in carrying any of her furniture upstairs—it was a mercy he got back at all—and, it being Sunday, “Flynt” would help only to save life, though you’d have thought from Maria’s squeals, as she was haled upstairs, that she was being slaughtered rather than saved. As for Mr. Skindle, he seemed stricter with the Sabbath than even the Peculiars, and would do nothing but try to light the fire.
“You were at home. I hadn’t got but the clothes I stood in,” Elijah explained. “What should I have done if I’d gone up to my neck in water?”
“Here’s your bag,” Caleb’s voice broke in from the window, “but Will won’t come, Martha!”
“Won’t come?” shrilled Martha, and before Jinny could stop her, she was on the footboard and had disappeared through the casement.