A stretcher was got, and a mattress put on it, and they carried him through the streets, while one ran before to tell the unhappy wife, and Little took her address, and ran to Dr. Amboyne.  The doctor went instantly to the sufferer.

Tucker assisted to carry the victim home.  He then returned to Grotait, and told him the news.  Dan was not so hardened but what he blubbered in telling it, and Grotait’s eyes were moist with sympathy.

They neither of them spoke out, and said, “This upsets our design on Little.”  Each waited to see whether that job was to go on.  Each was ashamed to mention it now.  So it came to a standstill.

As for Little, he was so shocked by this tragedy and so anxious about its victim, that he would not go out to Cairnhope.  He came, in the evening to Dr. Amboyne, to inquire, “Can he live?”

“I can’t say yet.  He will never work again.”

Then, after a silence, he fixed his eyes on young Little, and said, “I am going to make a trial of your disposition.  This is the man I suspected of blowing you up; and I’m of the same opinion still.”

“Then he has got his deserts,” were Henry’s first words, after a pause of astonishment.

“Does that mean you forgive him, or you don’t forgive him?”

“I dare say I should forgive the poor wretch, if he was to ask me.”

“And not without?”

“No.  I might try and put it out of my head; but that is all I could do.”

“Is it true that you are the cause of his not being taken to the infirmary?”

“Yes, I said I’d pay out of my own pocket sooner; and I’m not the sort to go from my word.  The man shall want for nothing, sir.  But please don’t ask me to love my enemies, and all that Rot.  I scorn hypocrisy.  Every man hates his enemies; he may hate ’em out like a man, or palaver ’em, and beg God to forgive ’em (and that means damn ’em), and hate ’em like a sneak; but he always hates ’em.”

The doctor laughed heartily.  “Oh, how refreshing a thing it is to fall in with a fellow who speaks his real mind.  However, I am not your enemy, am I?”

“No.  You are the best friend I ever had—­except my mother.”

“I am glad you think so; because I have a favor to ask you.”

“Granted, before ever you speak.”

“I want to know, for certain, whether Simmons was the man who blew you up; and I see but one way of learning it.  You must visit him and be kind to him; and then my art tells me, he won’t leave the world without telling you.  Oblige me by taking him this bottle of wine, at once, and also this sedative, which you can administer if he is in violent pain, but not otherwise.”

“Doctor,” said the young man, “you always get your own way with me.  And so you ought.”

Little stood by Simmons’s bedside.

The man’s eye was set, his cheek streaked with red, and his head was bandaged.  He labored in breathing.