Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots by G. A. Henty (i read books .TXT) 📖

Ned gulped down the emotion of fear excited by their threatening appearance, and replied as calmly as he could: “I am sorry to say that I have had a struggle with a boy over by that rock yonder. We fell together, and he has broken his leg. He told me if I came over in this direction I should find some one to help him.”

“Broaken Bill's leg, did'st say, ye young varmint?” one of the men exclaimed. “Oi've a good moinde to wring yer neck.”

“I am very sorry,” Ned said; “but I did not mean it. I and another boy were walking back to Marsden from fishing, and he wouldn't let us pass; it was too far to go back again, so of course we had to try, and then there was a fight, but it was quite an accident his breaking his leg.”

“Did'st see nowt afore ye had the voight?” one of the other men inquired.

“No,” Ned replied; “we saw no one from the time we left the stream till we met the boy who would not let us pass, and I only caught sight of you walking this way from the top of the rock.”

“If 'twere a vair voight, John, the boy bain't to be blamed, though oi be main grieved about thy brother Bill; but we'd best go back for him, voor on us. And moind, youngster, thee'd best keep a quiet tongue in thy head as to whaat thou'st seen here.”

“I haven't seen anything,” Ned said; “but of course if you wish it I will say nothing about it.”

“It were best for ee, for if thou go'st aboot saying thou'st seen men with guns and clubs up here on the moor, it ull be the worsest day's work ee've ever done.”

“I will say nothing about it,” Ned replied, “but please come on at once, for I am afraid the boy is in terrible pain.”

Four of the men accompanied Ned back to the rock.

“Hullo, Bill! what's happened ee?” his brother asked.

“Oi've had a fight and hurted myself, and broke my leg; but it wa'nt that chap's fault; it were a vair voight, and a right good 'un he be. Doan't do nowt to him.”

“Well, that's roight enough then,” the man said, “and you two young 'uns can go whoam. Marsden lies over that way; thou wilt see it below ye when ye gets to yon rock over there; and moind what I told ee.”

“I will,” Ned said earnestly; “but do let me come up to see how he is getting on, I shall be so anxious to know.”

The man hesitated, but the lad said, “Let um coom, John, he bee a roight good un.”

“Well, if thou would'st like it, Bill, he shall coom.”

“If thou coom oop to Varley and ask vor Bill Swinton, anyone will show ee the place.”

“Goodby,” Ned said to the boy, “I am so sorry you have got hurt. I will come and see you as soon as I can.”

Then he and Tompkins set off toward the rock the man had pointed out, which by this time, in the fast growing darkness, could scarce be made out. They would indeed probably have missed it, for the distance was fully a mile and a half; but before they had gone many yards one of the four men passed by them on a run on his way down to Marsden to summon the parish doctor, for a moment's examination had sufficed to show them that the boy's injury was far too serious to treat by themselves.

Tired as the boys were, they set off in his footsteps, and managed to keep him in sight until they reached the spot whence Marsden could be seen, and they could no longer mistake the way.

“Now, look here, Tompkins,” Ned said as they made their way down the hill; “don't you say a word about this affair. You haven't got much to boast about in it, sitting there on the grass and doing nothing to help me. I shan't say anything more about that if you hold your tongue; but if you blab I will let all the fellows know how you behaved.”

“But they will all notice my nose directly I get in,” Tompkins said. “What am I to say?”

“Yes, there's no fear about their not noticing your nose,” Ned replied. “I don't want you to tell a lie. You can say the exact truth. We were coming home across the moors; a boy interfered with us, and would not let us pass; we both pitched into him, and at last he got the worst of it, and we came home.”

“But what's the harm of saying that you and he fell, and he broke his leg?”

“A great deal of harm,” Ned replied. “If it was known that a boy's leg got broke in a fight with us it would be sure to come to Hathorn's ears; then there would be an inquiry and a row. Like enough he would go up to see the boy and inquire all about it. Then the men would suppose that we had broken our words, and the next time you and I go out on a fishing expedition there's no saying what mightn't happen to us. They are a rough lot those moor men, and don't stick at trifles.”

“I will say nothing about it,” Tompkins replied hastily; “you may rely on that. What a lucky fellow you are to be going home! Nothing will be said to you for being an hour late. I shall get a licking to a certainty. How I do hate that Hathorn, to be sure!”

They now came to the point where the road separated and each hurried on at his best speed.

“You are late tonight, Ned,” the boy's father said when he entered. “I don't like your being out after dark. I don't mind how far you go so that you are in by sunset; but, halloo!” he broke off, as he caught sight of the boy's face as he approached the table at which the rest of the party were sitting at tea; “what have you been doing to your face?”

Captain Sankey might well be surprised. One of the boy's eyes was completely closed by a swelling which covered the whole side of his face. His lip was badly cut, and the effect of that and the swelling was to give his mouth the appearance of being twisted completely on one side.

“Oh! there's nothing the matter,” Ned replied cheerfully; “but I had a fight with a boy on the moor.”

“It is dreadful!—quite dreadful!” Mrs. Sankey said; “your going on like this. It makes me feel quite faint and ill to look at you. I wonder you don't get killed with your violent ways.”

Ned made no reply but took his seat at the table, and fell to work upon the hunches of thick brown bread and butter.

“I will tell you about it afterward, father,” he said; “it really wasn't my fault.”

“I am sure I don't wish to hear the story of your quarrels and fighting,