Donald, the poor master's side was crushed in, and both
legs splintered. I knew at once he was dying, when I carried him to
the grass and laid him down; and he knew it, too. Yes, the master knew
he was done; and him so young and happy, and just about to be married
to--to--the name escapes me, lad!"
His voice sank to a low mumble, and he closed his eyes wearily.
The watchers at his side stood still and waited. It might be that
death had overtaken the poor fellow. But no; he moved again, and
opened his eyes, continuing his speech in a stronger tone.
"It was hard work to get the paper for Master Tom," he said; "but he
swore he must have it before he died. I ran all the way to the station
house and back--a mile or more--and brought the paper and a pen and
ink, besides. It was but a telegraph blank--all I could find. Naught
but a telegraph blank, lad."
Again his voice trailed away into a mumbling whisper, but now Uncle
John and Donald looked into one another's eyes with sudden interest.
"He mustn't die yet!" said the little man; and the coachman leaned
over the wounded form and said, distinctly:
"Yes, lad; I'm listening.
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