the
bandaging was young Dick's doing, for of all the clumsy bungling I ever
saw it was about the worst."

Dick gave his eye a peculiar twist in the direction of his father, who
was giving him a droll look, and then they both laughed.

"Very delicately done, doctor," said the squire. "There, Dick, as he
has put it on your shoulders you may as well bear it."

"Ah, let him!" said the doctor. "Now, what are you going to do?" he
said aloud; "catch the scoundrel who shot Mr Marston, and get him
transported for life?"

"That's what ought to be done to him," said John Warren solemnly, as he
looked straight away over the fen.

"Ay," said Dave. "How do we know but what it may be our turn or
Hickathrift's next? It's a straange, bad thing."

"I must talk it over with Mr Marston," said the squire, "when he gets
better, and then we shall see."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE PATIENT'S FRIENDS.

Mr Marston declared that he had not the most remote idea of having
given any of his men offence, and then looked very serious about the
question of bringing over the constables from the town to investigate
the matter.

"It may have been an accident, Mr Winthorpe," he said; "and if so, I
should be sorry to get any poor fellow into trouble."

"Yes, but it may not have been an accident," said the doctor.

This was in the evening, the doctor having ridden over again to see how
his patient was getting on.

"Heaven forbid, sir," said Marston warmly, "that I should suspect any
man of such a cowardly cruel deed! Impossible, sir! I cannot recall
having done any man wrong since I have been here. My lads like me."

"How do you know that?" said the squire dryly. "Men somehow are not
_very_ fond of the master who is over them, and makes them fairly earn
their wages."

"Well, sir, I don't know how to prove it," said Marston, who was lying
on a dimity-covered couch, "but--"

"Hallo!" cried the squire, leaping up and going to the window, as a loud
and excited buzzing arose, mingled with the trampling of feet, which
sounded plainly in the clear cold spring evening.

"Anything wrong?" said the doctor.

"Why, here's a crowd of a hundred fellows armed with sticks!" cried the
squire. "I believe they've got the rascal who fired the shot."

"No!" said the doctor.

"Father! Mr Marston!" cried Dick, rushing up stairs and into the
visitor's bed-room; "here are all the drain-men--hundreds of them--Mr
Marston's men."

"Not hundreds, youn