“Drat you, why don't you go look at the pore gentleman instead of posterin' a body 'most to death!” she demanded at length, and they stole off on tiptoe to stare at Yancy. Presently Richard ran to his mother's side.
“Come quick—he's mutterin' and mumblin' and moving his head!” he cried. It was as the child said. Yancy had roused from his heavy stupor. Words almost inaudible and quite inarticulate were issuing from his lips and there was a restless movement of his head on the pillow.
“He 'pears powerful distressed about something,” said Mrs. Cavendish. “I reckon I'd better give him a little stimulant now.”
While she was gone for the whisky, Connie, who had squatted down beside the bed, touched Yancy's hand which lay open. Instantly his fingers closed about hers and he was silent; the movement of his head ceased abruptly; but when she sought to withdraw her hand he began to murmur again.
“I declare, what he wants is some one to sit beside him!” said Mrs. Cavendish, who had returned with the whisky, a few drops of which she managed to force between Yancy's lips. All the rest of that day some one of the children sat beside the wounded man, who was quiet and satisfied just as long as there was a small hand for him to hold.
“He must be a family man,” observed Mr. Cavendish when Polly told him of this. “We'll tie up at Pleasantville landing and learn who he is.”
“He had ought to have a doctor to look at them cuts of his,” said Mrs. Cavendish.
It was late afternoon when the landing was reached. Half a score of men were loafing about the woodyard on shore. Mr. Cavendish made fast to a blasted tree, then he climbed the bank; the men regarding him incuriously as he approached.
“Howdy,” said Cavendish genially.
“Howdy,” they answered.