Of course the unfortunate man’s friends had waited for him with some impatience, and great was their anxiety when the first of the flood made its appearance. When, immediately after, the battered form of their comrade was flung on the beach, they ran forward and bore him out of the stream.
Oliver Trembath being on the spot, Maggot wae at once attended to, and his wounds bound up.
“He’ll do; he’s all right,” said Oliver, on completing the work—“only got a few cuts and bruises, and lost a little blood, but that won’t harm him.”
The expression of anxiety that had appeared on the faces of those who stood around at once vanished on hearing these reassuring words.
“I knaw’d it,” said John Cock energetically. “I knaw’d he couldn’t be killed—not he.”
“I trust that you may be right, Oliver,” said old Mr Donnithorne, looking with much concern on the pale countenance of the poor smith, who still lay stretched out, with only a slight motion of the chest to prove that the vital spark had not been altogether extinguished.
“No fear of him, he’s sure to come round,” replied Oliver; “come, lads, up with him on your backs.”
He raised the smith’s shoulder as he spoke. Three tall and powerful miners promptly lent their aid, and Maggot was raised shoulder-high, and conveyed up the steep, winding path that led to the top of the cliff.
“It would never do to lose Maggot,” murmured Mr Donnithorne, as if speaking to himself while he followed the procession beside Mr Cornish; “he’s far too good a—”
“A smuggler—eh?” interrupted the purser, with a laugh.