THE MESSAGE
The long autumn holiday was drawing to a close. In a couple of days' time Paul would be back again at the old school—back again at Garside House. He had had a pretty good time during the "vac.," but, none the less, he should not be sorry to meet again the fellows of his Form. School wasn't such a bad place, after all.
"Fact, if it wasn't for that wretched science master, Weevil—why wasn't he christened Weazel?—one might put up with a lot of it. Don't know how it is, but he always puts my back up."
Paul was returning home across the fields, and had just alighted over a five-barred gate into a lane which wound round the side of the Manor House into the main road, when he was arrested by a cry of distress.
"Hallo! What's that? Some one down? My—down it is!"
A horseman had come a cropper a little distance down the lane. Paul immediately ran to his assistance.
"What's wrong, sir? A tumble?"
"Yes; Falcon slipped, and before I quite knew where I was I was out of the saddle. But I don't think I'm hurt very much."
Paul extended a hand to the fallen rider. He grasped it, and tried to rise; a spasm of pain crossed his face.
"I'm afraid that you are hurt, sir."