Paul chuckled immensely—as sinners are wont to do when they catch those whom they are pleased to call “saints” tripping—but when he had pushed the plank over, and Fred, plunging across, fell at his feet in a state of insensibility, his mirth vanished and he stooped to examine him. His first act was to put his nose to the youth’s mouth and sniff.
“No smell o’ drink there,” he muttered. Then he untied Fred’s neckcloth and loosened his belt. Then, as nothing resulted from these acts, he set himself to lift the fallen man in his arms. Being a sturdy fellow he succeeded, though with considerable difficulty, and staggered with his burden towards the hut, where he was met by his anxious daughter.
“Why, lass, he’s no more drunk than you are!” cried Paul, as he laid Fred on his own bed. “Fetch me the brandy—flask—no? Well, get him a cup of coffee, if ye prefer it.”
“It will be better for him, father; besides, it is fortunately ready and hot.”
While the active girl ran to the outer room or “hall” of the hut for the desired beverage, Paul slily forced a teaspoonful of diluted brandy into Fred’s mouth. It had, at all events, the effect of restoring him to consciousness, for he opened his eyes and glanced from side to side with a bewildered air. Then he sat up suddenly, and said—
“Paul, the villains are on your track again. I’ve hastened ahead to tell you. I’d have been here sooner—but—but I’m—starving.”
“Eat, then—eat before you speak, Mr Westly,” said Betty, placing food before him.
“But the matter is urgent!” cried Fred.
“Hold on, Mr Fred,” said Paul; “did you an’ the enemy—whoever he may be, though I’ve a pretty fair guess—start to come here together?”
“Within the same hour, I should think.”