“Ah, the Infirmary; that be the place for he,” chimed in a man who had lately refused to go there himself when a drunken fight had laid his head open.
The eyes kept their direction and the lips moved.
On his way back Llewellyn overtook the doctor, and the two drove up together.
Howlie’s hands and arms were temporarily dressed; the left one was in such a state that the doctor feared it would be permanently useless; he hoped, he said, to save the use of the other. He was young and shy, and he timidly suggested that the people were pressing too near. The sufferer had fainted again.
The showman and Llewellyn simply threw one or two off the platform. The act was sudden and had a good effect.
Soon the world came back to Howlie—a world of agony. Llewellyn bent down to him in answer to an unspoken prayer. “Parson’s, Parson’s,” murmured the boy.
“What is it? What does he want, father?” asked Llewellyn, pity in every line of his strong face.
“Poor little fellow, he wants to go back to Crishowell instead of to the Infirmary.”
The dumb look grew more intense.