The circle of onlookers turned round, and Mr. Fenton made an exclamation.
“Is it very bad?” he asked with some futility.
“Moight be worse, a’ suppose,” replied Howlie, as he fainted into Llewellyn’s arms.
The little group was becoming the centre of a dense mass.
People who stood in their places while they might have been of some use, now thrust their bodies between the fresh air and those who needed it, after the manner of crowds.
It was very evident that, of the two sufferers, Howlie was the worst; pain was bringing him again to consciousness, and he lay back against Mr. Fenton’s shoulder, his face looking strangely unfamiliar; nothing seemed to remain the same but a certain stubbornness. Llewellyn was on his way to fetch his father’s gig, and, as he went, he pulled off the fragments of the dogskin driving-gloves which he had, by good fortune, been wearing when the accident occurred. A man was dispatched to the nearest doctor’s house. The Squire adjured the bystanders to summon the police, a request of which they naturally took no count, being disinclined to have themselves dispersed. Two or three talked about the Infirmary.
Howlie’s eyes sought the Squire’s.
“What is it, my boy?” said he.
“Toike me ’ome to Parson’s,” said Howlie faintly.