yards of bandage rolled round his body by Murray, and defied them.
“You can talk till you’re black,” he said. “I’ve got to get back by seven. I’ve got to bring the coach down for the midday.”
Art Scannell swung his legs from the table edge where he was nursing a half-glass of brandy.
“I’ll drive you both back, and no questions asked,” he suggested. “Though mind you, I do consider it jolly cheek of you both to bring me down here just to watch Randal bleed.”
Murray felt in his pockets.
“My child,” he said, “you had two emetics before you left Argyle, and you’ll have another if you don’t take a reef in that tongue of yours. Can you keep him here till midday, Wallace, and I’ll drive Randal back if he’s beyond persuasion?”
“I’ve got to take the seven coach down,” said Randal, and came to his feet to clinch the matter.
Wallace provided his little trotter and a gig; and Randal made no complaint when they bumped over a broken culvert in the dark hour that goes before all sunlight. For the second time that night Murray forgot the creeping things that dogged him.
“You’ll be in a fine state by the time those horses have pulled you about all to-day,” he
