“Who is it?”asked Shealey.
“I believe it is—it is Stockley,” said Bracebridge.
“You don't say,” exclaimed Shealey, “at all events we must get him out of that tangle, dead or alive.”
“I don't believe that oak killed him, anyway," remarked Jack Beecham.
“Why?”asked Ambrose, in a whisper, for in the presence of death they were awed.
“Look here,” said Beecham, “no big limb has reached him. These twigs and leaves would give one a sharp switch when falling, and probably knock him down, but they are too small to break any bones.”
“Maybe that's true. Well, we shall soon find out," said Ambrose. “Now, boys, how are we to get him clear of that tree-top?”
They procured a strong stick, and while two lifted as many of the small boughs as they could, Bracebridge pushed the pole over the prostrate body. He then raised his end, the other being on the ground on the other side of the body. The two other boys took hold of Stockley's shoulders and successfully drew him from under the tree, as, fortunately, he
had not been caught by any of the larger limbs. Gently as possible they drew him out from under the mass of foliage, but gentle as they were, they necessarily used some force. To their surprise—and satisfaction—they heard him groan. He was not dead after all, but undoubtedly badly hurt.
No sooner had Stockley been extricated than Mr. Shalford appeared. The boys who were bending over the prostrate body looked up.