"I am all right," he declared. "Let's look after him."

They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still
gripping the dressing-case with both hands. There were no signs
of any change in his condition, but he was still breathing heavily.
Then they heard a shout behind, almost in their ears. The porter
staggered to his feet.

"It's all right now, sir!" he exclaimed. "They've brought blankets
and a stretcher and brandy. Here's a doctor, sir."

A powerful-looking man, hatless, and wrapped in a great ulster,
moved towards them.

"How many are there of you?" he asked, as he bent over Mr. Dunster.

"Only we two," Gerald replied. "Is my friend badly hurt?"

"Concussion," the doctor announced. "We'll take him to the village.
What about you, young man? Your face is bleeding, I see."

"Just a cut," Gerald faltered; "nothing else."

"Lucky chap," the doctor remarked. "Let's get him to shelter of
some sort. Come along. There's an inn at the corner of the lane
there."

They all staggered along, Gerald still clutching the dressing-case,
and supported on the other side by an excited and somewhat
incoherent villager.