Old Wigmore stepped closer to the blanketed form and touched it gingerly with his left hand. It squirmed beneath his fingers, and again gave utterance to that amazing sound.
"Yes, it's a human being," said the captain. And then, "Bless my soul, look at his feet! It's poor Timothy Fletcher, by Heaven! Quick, Benjamin, lend a hand here! Cut that rope, man!"
In less than half a minute old Timothy was free. Lacking the support of the rope that had circled his chest and the tree, he tipped forward and slid heavily to the ground. The captain knelt beside him.
"Run to the house and get some brandy," he ordered. "You'll find some in my bedroom, behind the wardrobe. Make haste, Benjamin!"
"Well," replied Benjamin Samson, "I reckon I don't have to, cap'n. Queer thing, cap'n, but I happen to have a drop o' rye whisky in my pocket. Ain't carried sech a thing for years and years—but I've had a spell o' toothache lately and t' only thing does it any good's rye whisky. I hold some in my mouth now and again—and always spit it out, of course. Here you are, cap'n, and welcome."
Wigmore twisted out the cork and held the bottle to Timothy's lips. Timothy's eyes were shut, but his lips were open. His throat seemed to be in working order.
"He takes it like a baby takes its milk," said Benjamin. "I guess he ain't bin murdered, after all. There! I reckon he's had about all that's good for him. Wake up, Mr. Fletcher, and tell us all about it."
"Tell me who did this, my good Timothy, and I'll make it hot for him," said Wigmore. "When did it happen, my worthy friend?"
"This here country's gettin' that lawless it ain't fit fer honest men like us to live in no longer," said Mr. Samson.
Timothy growled and sat up. He glared at Benjamin, then turned his gaze upon his master.