"Pity he ventured that way," said the squire.

"Here, Mr Marston, you're all right now," said d.i.c.k. "Can you get up and walk?"

There was no answer, but the young man tried to struggle up, and would have sunk down again had not the squire caught him round the waist.

"Poor lad! he's bet out. Not used to our parts," said Hickathrift.

"Here, howd hard, sir. Help me get him o' my back like a sack, and I'll run him up to the house i' no time."

It seemed the best plan; and as the young man uttered a low moan he was half lifted on to Hickathrift's broad back, and carried toward the house.

"Run on, d.i.c.k, and tell your mother to mix a good gla.s.s of hollands and water," said the squire.

d.i.c.k obeyed, and the steaming gla.s.s of hot spirits was ready as the wheelwright bore in his load, and the young man was placed in a chair before the glowing kitchen fire.

"My arm!" he said faintly.

"You wrenched his arm, Hicky," said d.i.c.k, "when you dragged him out."

"Very sorry, Mester d.i.c.k."

"Ugh!" cried the lad, who had laid his hand tenderly on their visitor's shoulder.

"What is it?" cried Mrs Winthorpe.

"Blood. He has been hurt," said d.i.c.k.

"Shot! Here," said the young man in a whisper; and then his head sank down sidewise, and he fainted dead away.

Mr Marston's faintly-uttered words sent a thrill through all present, but no time was wasted. People who live in out-of-the-way places, far from medical help, learn to be self-reliant, and as soon as Squire Winthorpe realised what was wrong he gave orders for the injured man to be carried to the couch in the dining parlour, where his wet jacket was taken off by the simple process of ripping up the back seam.

"Now, mother, the scissors," said the squire, "and have some bandages ready. You, d.i.c.k, if it's too much for you, go away. If it isn't: stop. You may want to bind up a wound some day."

d.i.c.k felt a peculiar sensation of giddy sickness, but he tried to master it, and stood looking on as the shirt sleeve was cut open, and the young man's white arm laid bare to the shoulder, displaying an ugly wound in the fleshy part.

"Why, it's gone right through, mother," whispered the squire, shaking his head as he applied sponge and cold water to the bleeding wounds.

"And doctor says there's veins and artrys, mester," said Hickathrift, huskily. "One's bad and t'other's worse. Which is it, mester?"

"I hope and believe there is no artery touched," said the squire; "but we must run no risk. Hickathrift, my man, the doctor must be fetched.

Go and send one of the men."

"Nay, squire, I'll go mysen," replied the big wheelwright. "Did'st see his goon, Mester d.i.c.k?"

"No, I saw no gun."

"Strange pity a man can't carry a gun like a Chrishtun," said the wheelwright, "and not go shutin hissen that way."

The wheelwright went off, and the squire busied himself binding up the wounds, padding and tightening, and proving beyond doubt that no artery had been touched, for the blood was soon nearly staunched, while, just as he was finishing, and Mrs Winthorpe was drawing the sleeve on one side so as to secure a bandage with some st.i.tches, something rolled on to the floor, and d.i.c.k picked it up.

"What's that, d.i.c.k--money?"

"No, father; leaden bullet."

"Ha! that's it; nice thing to go through a man's arm," said the squire as he examined the roughly-cast ragged piece of lead. "We must look for his gun to-morrow. What did he expect to get with a bullet at a time like this? Eh? What were you trying to shoot, Marston?" said the squire, as he found that the young man's eyes were open and staring at him.

"I--trying to shoot!"

"Yes; of course you didn't mean to bring yourself down," said the squire, smiling; "but what in the world, man, were you trying to shoot with bullets out here?"

The young engineer did not reply, but looked round from one to the other, and gave Mrs Winthorpe a grateful smile.

"Do you recollect where you left your gun?" said d.i.c.k eagerly, for the thought of the rust and mischief that would result from a night in the bog troubled him.

"Left my gun!" he said.

"Never mind now, Mr Marston," said the squire kindly. "Your things are wet, and we'll get you to bed. It's a nasty wound, but it will soon get right again. I'm not a doctor, but I know the bone is not broken."

"I did not understand you at first," said the young engineer then. "You think I have been carrying a gun, and shot myself?"

"Yes, but never mind now," said Mrs Winthorpe, kindly. "I don't think you ought to talk."

"No," was the reply; "I will not say much; but I think Mr Winthorpe ought to know. Some one shot me as I was coming across the fen."

"What!" cried d.i.c.k.

"Shot you!" said the squire.

"Yes. It was quite dark, and I was carefully picking my way, when there was a puff of smoke from a bed of reeds, a loud report, and I seemed to feel a tremendous blow; and I remember no more till I came to, feeling sick and faint, and managed to crawl along till I saw the lights of the farm here, and cried for help."

"Great heavens!" cried the squire.

"Didn't you see any one?" cried Mrs Winthorpe.

"No, nothing but the smoke from the reeds. I feel rather faint now--if you will let me rest."

With the help of d.i.c.k and his father the young engineer was a.s.sisted to his bed, where he seemed to drop at once into a heavy sleep; and, satisfied that there was nothing to fear for some time, the squire returned to the parlour looking very serious, while d.i.c.k watched him intently to see what he would say.

"This is very dreadful, my dear," whispered Mrs Winthorpe at last.

"Have we some strange robber in the fen?"

"Don't know," said the squire shortly. "Perhaps some one has a spite against him."

"How dreadful!" said Mrs Winthorpe.

"One of his men perhaps."

"Or a robber," cried d.i.c.k excitedly. "Why, father, we might get Dave and John Warren and Hicky and some more, and hunt him down."