“Higby,” commanded the Judge, firmly, “calm yourself and tell us what is the matter.”
The old man gained some degree of composure upon arriving in the hall and seeing himself surrounded by friends.
“They ’m-m-most killed me,” he said, wildly, stepping up and down and clasping his head with his hands. “They t-t-tried to dig their knives in me, but I r-r-ran like a fox.”
Though considerably older than the Judge, his head was not white, but was covered with a thin crop of grizzled hair.
“O, blood!” he moaned, miserably, bringing down one hand and extending it toward the Judge, “blood! blood!”
There were red streaks on his hands, and the Judge looked at them seriously.
“Higby, begin from the first. What has happened to you?”
The man began to step backward and to stammer violently.
“S-s-sir, I was in m-m-my room, b-b-back through the upper hall in the L.”
“Turn him round, some one,” called Mrs. Blodgett, who was hurrying up from below. “He’s backing downstairs.”