“Water!” the boy choked. “The Tray-Spot is flooded, and they’re down there.”
“Who’s down there?” Carrington’s words cut.
“The young fellow—Trevanion—and Mr. Ned,” Ike sobbed.
Carrington’s ashy face worked curiously.
“And Richards?” he demanded.
“Come up and left ’em,” moaned the boy.
John Carrington wheeled, strode limpingly, and for the first time without a crutch, into the house, snatched something that glistened from the drawer of his desk, and came running rapidly in that uneven, limping way toward the saddled horse.
“For pity’s sake, what are you going to do?” Mrs. Kipley called out, as he managed, by the aid of the horse block, to get into the saddle.
The face that turned toward her was distorted with fury, but the twisting lips spoke only two words in a hoarsely guttural cry: “My boy!” But in them was anguish and revenge.
The Colonel shot forward like a shell from a gun.