The Wolf Patrol Part 48

'Hallo, Thatcher, what's wrong?' he called out.

'Why, 'tis one o' these here danged motor-cars,' replied the old man.

'Gooin' faster than an express train along this narrow way, an' knocked Jimmy into the ditch.'

The gamekeeper came up, and at the first glance called upon them to lay the donkey down again.

'Let me have a look at him,' he said. 'That cut's nothing. There's worse than that cut, I fancy.'

'I hope no bones have a-gone,' said the donkey's master.

'That's just where it is, Thatcher,' said the gamekeeper, after a short examination. 'The poor beast's shoulder is a-broke right across.

He'll ne'er stand on his four legs again.'

Thatcher uttered a cry of distress.

'Broke across, ye say, keeper! Then what's to be done with him?'

'Nothing,' said the keeper; 'there's nothing ye can do to cure him.

The poor brute's in agony now. Look at his eyes!'

'Nothin' ye can do,' repeated the owner in a dull voice, his eyes almost as full of distress as those of his injured helpmate. 'An'

Jimmy were the best donkey as iver pulled a cart.'

'Nothin' at all,' said the keeper, ''cept a charge o' No. 6,' and he tapped the breech of his gun significantly.

'Shoot him?' cried old Thatcher.

'It's that or let him die slowly in misery,' replied the keeper. 'If ye like I'll put him out of his pain before I go on, but I can't stay long, for I've got to meet someone in Hayton Spinney, and I ought to be there now.'

'You're quite sure nothing can be done?' said d.i.c.k to the keeper.

'Perfectly sure, sir,' replied the man; 'the shoulder bone's clean gone. If it wor' a hunter worth three hundred guineas nothing could be done to save the creature's life.'

Jimmy was not worth three guineas, let alone three hundred, but when the keeper had mercifully ended the poor brute's sufferings with a cartridge, and hurried on to his appointment, he left old Thatcher heart-broken beside the body of his faithful servant.

'I dunno what I'm goin' to do now!' cried the poor old fellow to the scouts, who remained at his side to see what help they could render.

'Ye see, wi' Jimmy to help me I've med a few shillin's a week, doin' a bit o' higgling an' odd jobs in carryin' light things. That's kept me out o' the Work'us. But I'm a lost man now. There's nowt but the Union for me, I doubt. An' I've fowt hard to keep out o' that.'

The scouts tried to console him, but the loss of his donkey was a heavy blow to the old higgler.

'Where am I goin' to get another?' he said. 'I'm a bit short-handed now wi' my rent, for I've been ill a good bit on an' off last winter.

Eight-an'-twenty shillin' I gave for Jimmy; an' I ain't got eight-an'-twenty fardens to spare.'

He heaved a bitter sigh, and began to strip the harness off the companion of his daily journeys. The scouts helped, and the harness was tossed into the little cart. That had escaped very well in the overset: one shaft was cracked, and that was all.

'Joseph Thatcher, Little Eston,' read d.i.c.k, from the side of the cart.

'Ay, that's me,' said the higgler. 'Joe Thatcher: lived in Little Eston all my life.'

'And you were on your road home?' went on d.i.c.k.

'Just comin' back from town,' replied the old man. 'I'd been wi' a load of b.u.t.ter an' fowls an' what-not for two or three neighbours, an'

left the things at different shops. An' now I must get my cart home somehow an' tell my neighbours what's happened.'

'I see,' said Chippy. 'That's aw' right. I'll run yer cart home for ye.'

'Yes,' said d.i.c.k; 'we'll soon run it home for you.'

'No, yer don't,' said the Raven to his friend. 'Ye'll stop here an'

tek' care o' the traps till I get back;' and with these words he whipped off haversack and jacket, and tossed them on to the bank.

'Oh, that won't do, Chippy,' cried d.i.c.k; 'that's just a trick to prevent me lending a hand.'

'Trick or no trick, it's just wot 'ull happen,' said the Raven firmly.

'It's rather more'n two miles back to Eston--that's four goin' an'

comin', an' you wi' a game foot. No, not an inch back do ye stir.

Besides, it gies me the chance to strip to the work nice an'

comfortable.'

'But you can't shift that cart by yourself,' cried d.i.c.k.

Chippy uttered a grunt of scorn.

'There's nothing in it 'cept the harness,' he said. 'Can't shift that, eh?'

He took the shafts and ran the cart into the way as if it had been a big wheelbarrow: there was surprising strength in his slight but sinewy figure.

'Come on, gaffer!' cried Chippy, and he trundled the cart rapidly away down the road, leaving d.i.c.k on guard perforce beside his comrade's equipment.

Within three-quarters of an hour Chippy was back, travelling at scout's pace.

'You've been jolly quick, Chippy,' shouted d.i.c.k.

'Had a bit o' luck,' returned the Raven, wiping his sweat-soaked face; 'met a farmer's cart goin' into Eston, and tied th' old man's cart at the back, so I didn't 'ave to go all the way.'

'What about the motor-car?' asked d.i.c.k. 'Had it run through the village?'

'Not it,' replied the other; 'turned sharp to the left at the cross-roads.'

d.i.c.k got out the map, and the scouts saw that the driver knew the country; he had taken the most solitary road of the neighbourhood.

'A set of sneaks,' said d.i.c.k.

'Bad uns,' agreed his chum.

'I say, Chippy, it was no end good of you to cut off like that with the cart, but I would rather have lent a hand,' cried d.i.c.k.

'Let's 'ave a look at that 'ere foot,' was the Raven's only reply.