Gentlemen and Players
feet, how the wet grass numbed them as we made for the sound of voices on an outlying lawn. So dark was the night that we were in the cricketers' midst before we saw the shimmer of their pyjamas; and then Lord Amersteth almost trod on Mackenzie as he lay prostrate in the dew.
"Who's this?" he cried. "What on earth's happened?"
"It's Clephane," said a man who knelt over him. "He's got a bullet in him somewhere."
"Is he alive?"
"Barely."
"Good God! Where's Crowley?"
"Here I am," called a breathless voice, "It's no good, you fellows. There's nothing to show which way they've gone. Here's Raffles; he's chucked it, too." And they ran up panting.
"Well, we've got one of them, at all events," muttered Lord Amersteth. "The next thing is to get this poor fellow indoors. Take his shoulders, somebody. Now his middle. Join hands under him. All together, now; that's the way. Poor fellow!
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