Barney did so; Frank seized the other leg, and Charley Gorse grabbed the animal’s head.
The poor steed was as dead as could be, and he had no trouble in rolling him over.
Frank instantly bent over the captain to examine the leg.
He expected to find the limb broken by the weight, but was overjoyed to find that it was only bruised, and with a little care would soon be as well as ever.
“Whisky, Barney,” he called; “of course you have some.”
“Arrah now, me gossoon,” said blarneying Barney, as he handed forth a heavy pocket-flask, “and it’s yerself as knows what kind of a mon I am. Sure, I’d not be a thrue Irishman if I didn’t love whisky and fiddlin’. Av coorse I never get drunk, ye know, but thin I loike a wee shmall drink, so I do.”
While the Irishman was gabbing, Frank was pouring whisky down Harry Hale’s throat.
Charley Gorse rubbed the poor fellow’s hands, and opened his shirt to give him full chance to breathe.
In a few moments he came back to life and sensibility.
When he opened his eyes he looked with surprise at the faces around him.