“Captain Townsend—” began Bob.
The captain interrupted.
“Eh? You!” he exclaimed. “Why, what in thunder—?”
Bob did not let him finish. “Seymour Covell is out there in the carriage,” he explained, quickly. “He is hurt. Badly hurt, I am afraid.”
“Eh? Hurt?... What do you mean?”
“I mean he is unconscious. One of the—one of your horses kicked him in the head. If some one can help me carry him into the house—”
Townsend waited to hear no more. He put the lamp upon the table and darted to the stairs.
“Varunas!” he roared. “Varunas! Turn out and lend a hand here. Lively!”
Heedless of the scantiness of his apparel he ran down the walk to the carriage. On the rear cushions of the “two-seater” lay Seymour Covell, white and senseless, his head bound with a blood-stained handkerchief.
“Good Lord A’mighty!” groaned Townsend. “Here, you and I can manage him, Griffin, I guess. You take his feet.... Varunas! Where in thunder is Varunas?”