"And who do you think it weer?" said Dave, as he stood scratching his
ear; and upon being told the squire's opinion, he shook his head, and
said there was no knowing.
"It's a bad thing, Mester Dick, bringing straangers into a plaace. Yow
nivver know what characters they've got. Why, I do believe--it's a
turruble thing to say--that some of they lads at work at big dree-ern
hevven't got no characters at all."
"Here be Hickathrift a-coming wi' doctor," said John Warren.
And sure enough there was the doctor on his old cob coming along the fen
road, with Hickathrift striding by his side, the man of powder and
draught having been from home with a patient miles away when Hickathrift
reached the town, and not returning till five o'clock.
"He'll do right enough, squire," said the doctor. "Young man like he is
soon mends a hole in his flesh. You did quite right; but I suppose the
bandaging was young Dick's doing, for of all the clumsy bungling I ever
saw it was about the worst."
Dick gave his eye a peculiar twist in the direction of his father, who
was giving him a droll look, and then they both laughed.
"Very delicately done, doctor," said the squire. "There, Dick, as he
has put it on your shoulders you may as well bear it."
"Ah, let him!" said the doctor. "Now, what are you going to do?" he
said aloud; "catch the scoundrel who shot Mr Marston, and get him
transported for life?"
"That's what ought to be done to him," said John Warren solemnly, as he
looked straight away over the fen.
"Ay," said Dave. "How do we know but what it may be our turn or
Hickathrift's next? It's a straange, bad thing."
"I must talk it over with Mr Marston," said the squire, "when he gets
better, and then we shall see."