The voice came from the water, fainter now but still eager.
Julian hurried forward, fell on his knees by the side of the dyke
and, passing his hands under his friend's shoulders, dragged him
out of the black, sluggish water.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "What happened, Miles? Did you slip?"
"The bridge gave way when I was half across," was the muttered
response. "I think my leg's broken. I fell in and couldn't get
clear--just managed to raise my head out of the water and cling
to the rail."
"Hold tight," Julian enjoined. "I'm going to drag you across the
road. It's the best I can do."
They reached the threshold of the sitting room.
"Sorry, old chap," faltered Furley--and fainted.
He came to himself in front of the sitting-room fire, to find his
lips wet with brandy and his rescuer leaning over him. His first
action was to feel his leg.
"That's all right," Julian assured him. "It isn't broken. I've
been over it carefully. If you're quite comfortable, I'll step
down to the village and fetch the medico. It isn't a mile away."
"Don't bother about the doctor for a moment," Furley begged.
"Listen to me. Take your torch--go out and examine that bridge.
Come back and tell me what's wrong with it."
"What the dickens does that matter?" Julian objected. "It's the
doctor we want. The dyke's flooded, and I expect the supports
gave way."
"Do as I ask," Furley insisted. "I have a reason."
Julian rose to his feet, walked cautiously to the edge of the
dyke, turned on his light, and looked downwards.
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