The person assisted was a man. The light from the bar fell on his face, and the landlady saw him clearly. It was Paul Ritson. He was flushed, and his eyes were bloodshot. Behind him was Mercy Fisher, with recent tears on her cheeks.
"Oh, he's ill, Mrs. Drayton," said Mercy.
Paul freed one of his arms from the grasp of the girl, waved with a gesture of deprecation, smiled a jaunty smile, and said:
"No, no, no; let me walk; I'm well—I'm well."
With this he made for the house, but before he had taken a second step he staggered and fell against the door-jamb.
"Deary me, deary me, the poor gentleman's taken badly," said Mrs. Drayton, fussing about.
Paul Ritson laughed a little, lifted his red eyes, and said:
"Well, well! But it's nothing. Just dizzy, that's all. And thirsty—very—give me a drink, good woman."
"Bring that there bench up, missy, and we'll put him astride it," said the driver. "Right; that's the time o' day. Now, sir, down."
"Deary me, deary me, drink this, my good gentleman. It'll do you a mort o' good. It's brandy."