“That’s the stuff, mate. You’re a good feller, I kin see that.”
Somehow the whining, fawning tones of the man’s voice annoyed Jack; but nevertheless he was not the kind of lad to pass by any one who was injured or in distress. So he asked Tom to detach one of the oil lamps and prepared to make an investigation.
“Where is he?” asked Jack when Tom had the lantern off and ready for use. It cast a good, strong light, and as its rays fell on the countenance and general outline of the man who had summoned their aid, Jack was impressed still more unfavorably than he had been by the fellow’s voice.
He was a short, thick-set, roughly dressed individual, with a crop of unshaven beard on his chin that stood out like the bristles on an old toothbrush. On his head was a battered cap. His eyes were small and blinky, and as evasive as a rat’s.
“Poor Jim is right back in there, guv’ner,” he declared in answer to Jack’s question, motioning toward the bushes. “I carried him there after he got hit,” he explained.
“Why didn’t you leave him on the roadside?” asked Jack.
Somehow, for some reason he could not explain, he was suspicious of this man with the bristly chin and the blinky, red-rimmed eyes.
But the fellow answered glibly enough, momentarily disarming the boy’s suspicions.
“You see, poor Jim’s head was cut. I thought there might be water back there, so’s I could ‘a’ bathed it a bit,” he declared.
“Right this way, guv’ner,” he went on, pushing his way into the brush. “Hark! That’s poor Jim now!”