"No, he ain't, and he's mighty badly hurt!" said the boy hotly.
"Of course, of course, Custer!" said Mr. Shrimplin. "He'd a been killed though if he hadn't been drunk."
He climbed out of his cart, and clambered over the fence. Something in Custer's manner warned him that any allusions of a jocular nature would prove highly distasteful to his son, and he followed silently as Custer led the way down to the brook.
"Here's where he is!" said the boy halting. "You get down beside him—you're strongest, and I'll stay here and help pull him up while you lift!"
"That's the idea, son!" agreed Mr. Shrimplin genially.
And he slid down into the bed of the brook where he struggled to get the injured man to his feet. The first and immediate result of his effort was that the latter swore fiercely at him, though in a whisper.
"We got to get you out of this, mister!" said the little lamplighter apologetically.
A second attempt was made in which they were aided by Custer from above, and this time the injured man was drawn to the top of the bank, where he collapsed in a heap.
"He's fainted!" said Custer. "Strike a match and see who it is!"
Mr. Shrimplin obeyed, bringing the light close to the bloody and disfigured face.