British -- India -- Fiction; India -- History -- British occupation, 1765-1947 -- Fiction
“Look here,” he said, “I want some one to ride on to Alibad at once.
The Commissioner has broken his knee-cap and a few other things, and
Major North’s is the nearest house, but Mrs North mustn’t be
frightened. Milton, your pony’s a good one, I know, so just take it
out of him. Say nothing about Miss North or Brendon or anything, but
tell Mrs North the Commissioner has had a nasty fall, and I am
bringing him to her house with a fractured patella and a pair of
smashed ribs. She can get things ready, and send on to my house for
anything she doesn’t happen to have.”
“Surely the ladies had better go back with me, Doctor?” asked Milton,
pausing as he was about to start.
“No, we don’t want any more kidnapping to-night. We must travel
slowly, all of us, but they’ll be safer than with you. Feel shaky,
Miss North? Drink this,” and he handed her a flask-cup. “Miss Graham
is waiting to weep tears of joy over you. What, aren’t you gone yet,
Milton?”
“Tell Major North to arrest the syce,” Fitz shouted after the
messenger as he disappeared in the darkness.
“Off with your coats, you young fellows!” cried Dr Tighe, as the thud
of the pony’s steps upon the sand died away. “The Commissioner has to
be carried home somehow, and there’s not so much as a stick to make a
stretcher of. We must tie the coats together by the sleeves, and
manufacture a litter in that way.”
No one dared to scoff, although no one could understand what the
doctor meant to do; but working energetically under his directions,
they succeeded in framing a sufficiently practicable litter. Six of
the party were chosen as bearers, and the others were to relieve them,
their duty in the meantime being to lead the riderless horses and keep
watch against a surprise. Mabel and Flora, who had been enjoying the
luxury of shedding a few tears together in private, were placed at the
head of the procession, and the march began. At first the litter
containing the wounded man followed close after the two girls; but
presently Fitz, who was one of the bearers, felt his arm grasped.
“Let the ladies get ahead of us, please. I--I can’t stand this very
well.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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