"Chattaway's bull has done it. Hasten down to him, Bill. You might hear his groans all this way off, if you listened."
"Is the bull there?" asked Bill.
"I have seen no bull. The bull must have been in its shed hours ago. Stand by him, Bill, and I'll give you sixpence to-morrow."
They separated. George tore down the road, wondering how he should fulfil his father's injunction not to frighten Mrs. Ryle in telling the news. Molly, very probably looking after her sweetheart, was standing at the fold-yard gate as he passed. George sent her into the house the front way, and bade her whisper to Nora to come out; to tell her "somebody" wanted to speak to her. Molly obeyed; but executed her commission so bunglingly, that not only Nora, but Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn came flocking to the porch. George could only go in then.
"Don't be frightened, mamma," he said, in answer to their questions. "My father has had a fall, and—and says he cannot walk home. Perhaps he has sprained his ankle."
"What has become of your jacket and waistcoat?" cried Nora, amazed to see George standing in his shirt-sleeves.
"They are safe enough. Is John Pinder still in the kitchen?" continued George, escaping from the room.
Trevlyn ran after him. "George, have you been fighting?" he asked. "Is your jacket torn to ribbons?"
George drew the boy into a dark angle of the passage. "Treve," he whispered, "if I tell you something about papa, you won't cry out?"
"No, I won't cry out," answered Treve.