One glance told him that the prostrate, unconscious figure on the ground, with blood slowly oozing from the open mouth, was Raymond Deyncourt.
"Great God! the man's dying," he said, dropping on his knees beside him.
"He's all right, sir; he'll come to," said a little brisk man, in a complacent, peremptory tone.

"It's only the young chap,"-- pointing to the bashful but gratified Brooks--"as crocked him over the head a bit sharper than needful.

Here, Esp,"-- to the grinning Slumberleigh policeman, whom Charles now recognized, "tell the lad to bring up the 'orse and trap over the grass.

We shall have a business to shift him as it is." "Is he a poacher ?" asked Charles.

"He doesn't look like it." "Lord! no, sir," replied the little man, and Charles's heart went straight down into his boots and stayed there.