"
CHAPTER XXII.
JAMES TELLS A STRANGE STORY.
Uncle John followed the coachman up the stairs to the little room
above the tool-house, where the old man had managed to crawl after old
Sam had given him a vicious kick in the chest.
"Is he dead?" he asked.
"No, sir; but mortally hurt, I'm thinkin'. It must have happened while
we were at the funeral."
He opened the door, outside which Susan and Oscar watched with
frightened faces, and led John Merrick into the room.
James lay upon his bed with closed eyes. His shirt, above the breast,
was reeking with blood.
"The doctor should be sent for," said Uncle John.
"He'll be here soon, for one of the stable boys rode to fetch him. But
I thought you ought to know at once, sir."
"Quite right, Donald."
As they stood there the wounded man moved and opened his eyes, looking
from one to the other of them wonderingly. Finally he smiled.
"Ah, it's Donald," he said.
"Yes, old friend," answered the coachman. "And this is Mr. John."
"Mr. John? Mr. John? I don't quite remember you, sir," with a slight
shake of the gray head. "And Donald, lad, you've grown wonderful old,
somehow.
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