Dick o' the Fens Part 68

"Come on then, quick!"

d.i.c.k placed his hands beneath the constable's arms and locked his fingers across his breast, while Tom turned his back as he got between the man's legs, stooped in turn, and proceeded to lift them as if they were the handles of a wheel-barrow.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

"Then both together."

The two lads lifted the constable, staggered along a few yards, and set him down again.

"Oh, I say!" groaned Tom. "Isn't he heavy?"

"Come and try this end," retorted d.i.c.k. "He's an awful weight. We must go a few yards at a time, and we shall do it yet. Now then."

"Stop a minute," said Tom, who had picked up a handful of moss, and was rubbing one hand. "I--it's warm and sticky, and--oh, d.i.c.k, he's bleeding."

d.i.c.k lowered the insensible man down again, and, shuddering with horror, stepped to his companion's side.

Then kneeling down he tried to examine the spot pointed out by Tom, to find out as well as was possible in the dim light that the constable was bleeding freely from one leg.

"d.i.c.k, what shall we do?" cried Tom piteously.

"Why, what would anybody do if he had cut his finger?" cried d.i.c.k manfully, as he undid his neckcloth and doubled it afresh.

"I don't know," cried Tom, who was sadly scared.

"You don't know! Suppose you had cut your finger, wouldn't you tie it up?"

"Yes, I suppose so," faltered Tom, whom the situation had completely unnerved.

"Take off his neckerchief while I tie this on," said d.i.c.k, whom the emergency had rendered more helpful. "How can he have hurt himself like this?"

As he spoke he busied himself in tightly bandaging the man's leg, and added to the bandage the cotton cloth that Tom handed to him.

"I think that has stopped it," said d.i.c.k. "Now then, we must carry him down."

"But we shall sink into the bog with him," faltered Tom.

"No, we sha'n't if we are careful. Now, then, are you ready?"

"I don't like to try and lift him now," said Tom. "It's so horrible.

The man's bleeding to death."

"More shame for you to stand still and not try to help him," said d.i.c.k hotly. "Here, you come and carry this end."

Tom hastened to obey, heedless of the fact that the task would be the harder; and setting to with a will, the lads carried their load a few yards before setting it down again to rest.

This time, in spite of Tom's appeal not to be left alone, d.i.c.k went on for a bit so as to explore and make sure of the best way to get back to the boat, and not without avail, for he was able, in spite of the darkness, to pick out the firmest ground, his knowledge of the growth of the fen and its choice of soil helping him.

But it was a long and painful task. The lads were faint and terribly hungry. They had been working hard for several hours propelling the punt, and the load they were carrying would not have been an easy one for a couple of stout men. Still, by means of that wonderful aid to success, perseverance, they at last got past bog and water-pool, patch of sphagnum, bed of reed, and slimy hollow, where the cotton rushes nourished, and reached the belt of waving reeds which separated them from the water.

It was not done without tremendous effort and a constant succession of rests; but they stood there at last bathed in perspiration, and waiting for a few minutes before lifting the sufferer into the boat.

Up to this time they had been so busy and excited that they had not paused to ask the question: How was it that the man had been wounded?

but as they lifted him carefully into the boat, Tom being in and d.i.c.k ash.o.r.e, they both burst out with the query, as if moved by the same spring.

"I know," said d.i.c.k, as the truth seemed to flash upon him. "Some one must have shot him."

Tom had taken up the pole and was just about to force the boat along when this announcement seemed to paralyse him, and he stood there thinking of what had taken place before.

"Why, d.i.c.k," he whispered, "isn't it very horrible?"

"Don't talk," cried his companion, entering the boat; "let's get home."

The pole plashed in the water, which rippled against the bows, and once more they glided over the surface, just as the injured man uttered a low groan.

"We sha'n't be very long," said d.i.c.k, kneeling down and carefully feeling whether the kerchiefs he had bound round the leg were fulfilling their purpose. "Are you in much pain?"

"Pain!" groaned the man. "Hah! Give me some water."

There was no vessel of any kind in the punt, and d.i.c.k had to scoop up some water in the hollow of his hand, and pour it between the injured man's lips, with the result that he became sufficiently refreshed to sit up a little and begin muttering.

d.i.c.k now took the pole, and it was Tom's turn to try and administer a little comfort in the shape of words as to the time that would elapse before they could reach the Toft; but the only result was to produce an angry snarl from their patient.

"How does he seem?" d.i.c.k asked, as Tom went to his relief.

"Better not ask him."

"Why not?"

"Perhaps he'll bite you. He nearly did me. I say, how much farther is it?"

"Take another quarter of an hour. Oh, I shall be glad, Tom! Work hard."

Tom looked in his companion's face, and uttered a low laugh, as he toiled away at the poling, and that laugh seemed to say more than a dozen long speeches. Then there was nothing heard for some time but the regular plash and ripple of the water, as it was disturbed by pole and punt, while the darkness seemed to increase. At the same time, though, the hopes of the two lads rose high, for, standing as it were alone in the midst of the black darkness, there was a soft yellow light. At first it was so dull and lambent that it suggested thoughts of the will-o'-the-wisp. But this was no dancing flame, being a steady glow in one fixed spot, and Tom expressed his companion's thoughts exactly as he exclaimed:

"There's Hicky's old horn lanthorn!"

A few minutes more and the big bluff voice of the wheelwright was heard in a loud hail.

This was answered, and the sounds roused the wounded man.

"Nearly there?" he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"Very close now," replied d.i.c.k; and s.n.a.t.c.hing the pole from Tom he drove it down vigorously, making a tremendous spurt to reach the patch of old pollard willows by the landing-place, on one of whose old posts the lanthorn had been hung, and beyond which could now be seen the light in the Hickathrifts' cot.

"Why, I was a-coming swimming after you, lads," shouted Hickathrift.

"You scarred me. Squire's been down twiced to see if you'd got back, and the missus is in a fine way."