"I had better go up to the Hold, then. It is nearer than our house."
"You will not go to the Hold," said Mr. Ryle, authoritatively. "I will not be beholden to Chattaway. He has been the ruin of my peace, and now his bull has done for me."
George bent down closer. There was no room for him to get into the ditch, which was very narrow. "Papa, are you shivering with cold?"
"With cold and pain. The frost strikes keenly upon me, and my pain is great."
George instantly took off his jacket and waistcoat, and laid them gently on his father, his tears dropping silently in the dark night. "I'll run home for help," he said, speaking as bravely as he could. "John Pinder is there, and we can call up one or two of the men."
"Ay, do," said Mr. Ryle. "They must bring a shutter, and carry me home on it. Take care you don't frighten your mother, George. Tell her at first that I am a little hurt, and can't walk; break it to her so that she may not be alarmed."
George flew away. At the end of the second field, staring over the gate near the high-road, stood the boy Bill, whose ears George's shouts had reached. He was not a sharp-witted lad, and his eyes and mouth opened with astonishment to see George Ryle come flying along in his shirt-sleeves.
"What's a-gate?" asked he. "Be that bull loose again?"
"Run for your life to the second field," panted George, seizing him in his desperation. "In the ditch, a few yards along the hedge to the right, my father is lying. Go and stay by him, until I come back with help."
"Lying in the ditch!" repeated Bill, unable to collect his startled senses. "What's done it, Master George?"