Part 43 (1/2)

”Hanged if I know exactly,” replied Barcroft Senior. ”I was ahead of him when it happened. Heard a fearful bang, turned round and found Norton on the ground.”

”Frozen snow in the barrel, most likely,” remarked Entwistle. ”I've known guns to burst before to-day through that reason.”

”He did slip when we crossed the stile,” admitted Peter, ”and plenty of snow had drifted down there. But that theory won't hold. He fired his gun after that.”

”He may have fallen down again, or unknowingly poked the muzzle into another lot of snow,” suggested Entwistle. ”There was a good depth under the lee of those bushes, you'll remember, and I noticed by the footprints that he had walked through the drift.”

”It's awfully unfortunate,” declared Peter.

”Awfully--for the spy,” thought Entwistle, ”otherwise you might be taking his place on this improvised stretcher.”

The wounded man was taken to The Croft and put to bed. Two doctors, summoned by telephone, were quickly in attendance.

”He'll pull through,” was the verdict, ”unless complications ensue.

Shock to the system is more to be guarded against than the actual injuries. Some one will have to be constantly with him, particularly to see that an even temperature of the room is maintained.”

”I'll stay,” volunteered Entwistle.

”We'll take turns,” suggested Peter. ”I'll relieve you at two o'clock. Lunch will be ready for you then. If we cannot get a trained nurse (there is a dearth of them in Barborough, I understand) I'll be with him to-night. Come on, boys; we'll get back to Ladybird Fold.”

During the meal Barcroft Senior spoke hardly a word. His appet.i.te was poor. He was not used to scenes of physical violence. Even the unexpected arrival of Billy and the A.P. did little to help him to regain his normal spirits.

Lunch over, Peter left the two chums to their own devices and wended his way to The Croft.

He encountered Entwistle on the landing.

”Well?” he asked.

”He's just recovered consciousness,” reported Philip. ”A little light-headed, perhaps, and temperature up a bit. I'll come again at four. If you don't mind I'll arrange to stop here to-night.”

”You're awfully good,” said Peter, who had perhaps unconsciously taken upon himself the duties of deputy master of The Croft. ”Well, lunch is awaiting you. Make yourself at home at my place. If there's anything you require don't hesitate to ask for it.”

Entwistle had undertaken his self-imposed duties as sick-bed attendant with conscientious zeal; but he had also found time to make a complete investigation of the spy's papers, securing several that promised to become incriminating doc.u.ments when subjected to professional scrutiny. At any rate, if he could be undisturbed he antic.i.p.ated an interesting afternoon's search.

”I'll tell Barcroft all about it when I have completed the chain of evidence,” he reflected. ”He'll have a nasty shock, poor fellow, when he learns that his so-called pal tried to murder him. The whole thing's as plain as daylight to me; von Eitelwurmer meant to shoot him in the back, only the bursting of his gun saved Barcroft.”

Left in charge of his treacherous friend, Barcroft found the patient had fallen asleep. Since nothing more was to be done Barcroft Senior took up a book, at the same time sighing for a pipe, a luxury that out of praiseworthy consideration for the injured man he had temporarily abandoned.

”By Jove!” said Peter to himself about an hour later. ”That fire's getting low.”

As silently as possible he heaped more coal upon the smouldering embers. Tending fires was not in his line. Often at home he would allow the study fire to die out simply through neglect to make use of the poker.

Somewhat anxiously he watched the gradually dimming glow. He was half-minded to ring for Mrs. Crumpet, until reflecting that the housekeeper at The Croft was evidently a person who made more noise in proportion to the work done than was desirable in the circ.u.mstances, he decided to tackle the recalcitrant fire himself.

Vainly he looked for a pair of bellows. Foiled in that direction he suddenly remembered having seen a smouldering fire roused into activity by means of a newspaper held over the grate.

”This might do,” he soliloquised, picking up a couple of sheets of printed paper, since no newspaper could be found. ”A catalogue of sorts: wonder if Norton wants it particularly?”

Slowly, very slowly, the dying fire began to revive, until under the forced draught a respectable flame rewarded Peter's efforts.

Patiently holding the printed sheets across the grate until his arm ached, he whiled away the time by reading the technical description of Someone's patent combined washtub-and-dryer.