"I propose to investigate."
Securing his horse, Dyke Darrel vaulted the fence, and, closely
followed by Elliston, made his way across the field.
A dozen men and boys stood about, regarding some object with
commiserating glances.
Dyke Darrel pushed his way into the crowd, and was not disappointed in
what he saw--a man lying prostrate on some blankets, with white face
and blood-stained garments.
"We found him jest off the railroad, in a fence-corner," said one of
the countrymen. "He'll never git up an' walk agin."
"Has he said anything?"
This last question was put by Harper Elliston.
"Nary word. He fell off 'n ther train last night, I reckon."
Elliston knelt and felt the man's pulse.
"He lives," said the New Yorker, "but there isn't much life; he cannot
last long."
"A little brandy might revive him," said Dyke Darrel. "I would like to
have him speak; it is of the utmost importance."
"Indeed it is," cried Elliston. "Where is the flask of brandy you
brought from the train, Dyke?"
"In the buggy."
"Send a man for it."
"I will go myself;" and Dyke Darrel set off at a rapid walk across the
field. At the same moment the man on the blanket groaned and opened
his eyes.
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