Varunas came tumbling down the steps at that moment. His attire was even more sketchy than that of his employer. He and the captain and Bob lifted the limp figure from the seat and bore it up the walk. At the door Esther met them. Nabby was in the hall. Mrs. Gifford, in a calico wrapper and curl papers, would have been a sight to behold, if any one had thought of looking at her.
They carried Covell up the stairs to his own room and laid him on the bed.
“Get his clothes off, somebody,” ordered Townsend. “You, Nabby—that’s your job. Varunas, you go and get the doctor. Hurry!”
Bob caught the bewildered Gifford before he could leave the room.
“I called for the doctor on my way,” he said. “He told me to bring Covell here and he would be around in five minutes. Is there anything else I can do—now?”
Townsend shook his head. “I guess not,” he said. “Good Lord! Good Lord! What will his father say to me for letting this happen?... And it was one of my horses that kicked him, you say? I never knew them to do such a thing before. When did it happen? Where did it happen?”
Bob’s answer was a little vague, although no one seemed to notice the vagueness—then.
“Down below here along the road,” he said. “When I picked him up he was lying almost under their feet.... Oh, here is the doctor!”
The physician came panting into the room. His appearance shifted the center of interest from Griffin and the latter was, to say the least, relieved. He remained long enough to hear the result of the hasty examination. Covell’s injuries were grave, although by no means necessarily fatal. There was concussion of the brain, how serious could not yet be determined.
Bob, after asking once more if there was any way in which he might be useful and receiving but the briefest and most absent replies, left the room. “I think I may as well go now,” he told Esther. “I shall only be in the way.”