Martha felt about in the darkness for the torch, set it glowing and, by aid of its light, found a flask in Buller’s pocket, some of the contents of which she forced between his lips. When he was fully conscious, she bade him pick up his belongings, and come along home with her, where she could look after his hand, and, if necessary, telephone for the doctor. Clutching at her shoulder, he staggered to his feet. "Don’t forget your gun," warned Martha drily. "Damn the gun!" returned Buller. Somehow they reached the Lodge. Sam, hearing footsteps, came to the door with an anxious face. "Martha," he whispered, before he had made out she was not alone, "hurry back to the big house. Mr. Ronald’s just called you up this minute. His wife wants you, and—I’m going for the doctor." Martha pushed Buller forward into the entry. "Look after’m, Sam. He was on his way to give us a call. With his pistol an’ a bunch o’ kindlin’s to fire the house. He heard me comin’, an’ lay low for a minute, an’ got caught in the trap you set for—the other fox. But take care of’m," she said, and vanished into the night. Neither Sam nor Buller spoke for a moment. Then Sam opened the sitting-room door. "Come in," he invited the other. "Let’s take a look at your hand." The tortured Buller thrust it forward where the lamplight could fall upon it. Sam shook his head. "That’s beyond me," he explained. "But I tell you what, I’m going for Dr. Driggs, anyhow. You get in the car and come along with me. Only, I better take that black dingus off your face, hadn’t I?" Buller made a clumsy effort to detach it himself, but his left hand alone could not manage it. Sam did it for him. "Now, as soon as I get the car," he explained, "we can start." While he was gone Buller paced the floor like a caged animal, writhing with pain, crying, cursing. Sam was gone but a few minutes. It seemed an eternity to the poor, waiting wretch. Then away they sped through the cool, calming darkness of the night. In the extremity of his anguish, nothing really signified to Buller, yet again and again he found himself wondering if Slawson would "split" on him. As a matter of fact, Sam never opened his lips, beyond delivering his message to the doctor from Mr. Ronald, then turning Buller over to him for immediate attention. The old physician scowled through his spectacles when he saw the wound. "How did you manage _this_ job?" he asked in his blunt, uncompromising way. Buller winced. "Trap. Foxes after my hens. I set a trap to catch them."