“Come with me, my child, your mother is close at hand; there, trust to me; take my other arm, Mrs Franklin: very fortunate I was at hand to help. The drink, the drink,” he muttered in a low voice; “if they’d stuck to the water at the beginning they wouldn’t have stuck in the water at the end.”
And now a light flashed on them: it was the ruddy glow from a forge.
“Come in for a moment,” said their conductor, “till I see what is to be done. Tom Flint, lend us a lantern, and send your Jim to show some of these good people the way to the inn; they’ll get no strong drink there,” he said, half to himself.
And now several of the unlucky company had straggled into the smithy, which was only a few yards from the swollen stream. Among these was Mark, partially sobered by the accident, and dripping from head to foot.
“Here’s some capital stuff to stave off a cold,” he said, addressing Mrs Franklin and her daughter, whose faces were visible in the forge light: at the same time he rilled the cover of a small flask with spirits. “Come, let us be as jolly as we can under the circumstances.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs Franklin; “perhaps a very little mixed with water might be prudent, as Mary, I fear, is very wet.”
Mark stretched out the cup towards her, but before a drop could be taken the tall stranger had stepped forward, and snatching it, had emptied its contents on the glowing coals. Up there shot a brilliant dazzling flame to the smoky roof, and in that vivid blaze Mrs Franklin and Mary both recognised in their timely helper none other than Mr Esau Tankardew.