The man was dressed roughly, in a faded shirt, very dirty and stained corduroy trousers, and cow-hide boots. He had no hat and his lank hair hung dankly about his bloated, red face. His nose was huge and bulbous, and his whole appearance was that of a man of dissipated habits.
Presently—while they were still trying to revive the fellow—Jack came in from the barn. As soon as his eyes fell upon the man on the lounge, he gave a cry of surprise.
“Why that’s one of the fellows who was set to guard us!” he exclaimed.
Sam Hartley looked up quickly.
“It is, eh? One of the chaps who went to sleep and gave you a chance to use that knife?”
“Yes. What is he doing here? Where did you find him? What is the matter with him?”
Jack fairly poured out the questions. Sam Hartley smiled at his impatience.
“One at a time, lad,” he said, with a deliberation that was positively irritating to Jack, who was wild with curiosity. “Now here’s Mrs. Chillingworth, and I guess she’s come to tell us that the bed is ready. We’ll get this fellow into it, and then when we’ve all had some supper I’ll tell you just how I came to find him. I reckon he’s one of Bully Banjo’s horrible examples.”
“Horrible examples?” echoed Jack. “How do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Sam Hartley slowly, as he helped Mr. Dacre lift the still senseless man, “that he’s been paying pretty dearly for his sleep.”