"Hurt! Aw sud think I am. Howd that silly light to my fooit--th' reight 'un. Poo' mi clog off if yo' can, it's swelled an' all th' daggers i' hell's shooitin' through it. Tak' this knife an' cut th' clog off, an' don't be feart of a drop o' blood." I did as I was bid. "Gi' me th' clog, man--it'll n'er do to leave it on th' moor for a tell-tale. Not but what th' varmint knew weel enough who they were shooitin' at." "Th' varmint?" I queried. "Aye, them keepers at Bill's o' Jack's. Aw seed 'em, an' they seed me, worse luck. But aw'm all swimmin'. Gi' us another swig o' that liquor yo' han i' th' bottle--tho' what yo' done here wi a quart o' brandy to your own cheek passes me. Ugh!" he cried, as he put his foot to the ground, "aw'st n'er make o'er to th' Burnplatts at this noit, There's th' hermit' hut a bit forrard yonder. Aw've teed mony a rabbit to his door sneck unbeknown to him. Happen he'll ta' mi in for th' neet till aw rest my foot. Onny port i' a storm, tho' aw'st none relish his company o'er mich." There was no help for it, so I picked up my traps and, marvelling greatly at what was to be the end of it all, led the way to the not distant cottage, Ephraim leaning heavily on my shoulder and limping lamely over the sheep track, "breathing out threatenings and slaughter," though certainly not against "the disciples of the Lord." "Them Bradbury's 'st pay for this, or my name's not Eph. o' th' Burnplatts," he muttered; and I thought it probable they would. Now if I hadn't a handful I should like to know what man ever had. It was with the utmost difficulty, with many a groan and many a halt for breathing space, that I got Ephraim safe landed at the cottage. I made him as comfortable as I could on some sacking in front of the fire in the lower room. He clamoured for more brandy, and wanted to finish the bottle and "be damned to his fooit," as he put it. But I had to have sense for both--I that was never reckoned to have overmuch for one--and cut off discussion by carrying the bottle upstairs whither I knew Ephraim could not clamber. I found Mr. Garside much as I had left him, whether sleeping or half-conscious I could scarce determine--comatose Dr. Dean called it when at length--about daybreak--he rode up to the cottage and had painfully climbed the steep ladder-like staircase, puffing and blowing like a porpoise, as Ephraim said--for the doctor was fat and scant of breath. "I'd hardly have turned out of my warm bed to come to this God-forsaken place for anyone but your father's son," he growled. "Why didn't you send to Garstang at Saddleworth; he's nearer. But no! it's Bill Dean here, and Bill Dean there, till I'm worn to skin and bone." This as he bent over his elder patient--"that young gallows-lad can wait," he had remarked--and felt his pulse and turned up his eyelids. "Clemmed to death, that's what's the matter with him, and it's too far gone to be stopped I'm feared."