“He mustn’t have so much corn, Joseph,” said Mr Tiddson, parish doctor of Croppley Magna, addressing a grinning boy of sixteen, who, with his smock-frock rolled up and twisted round his waist, was holding the bridle of a very thin, dejected-looking pony, whose mane and tail seemed to have gone to the cushion-maker’s, leaving in their places a few strands that had missed the shears. The pony’s eyes were half shut, and his nose hung low; but, as if attending to his master’s words, one ear was twitched back, while the other pointed forward; and no sooner had his owner finished speaking than the poor little beast whinnied softly and shook its evidently remonstrating head. “He mustn’t have so much corn, Joseph,” said Mr Tiddson importantly. “He’s growing wild and vicious, and it was as much as I could do this morning to hold him.”

“What did he do, zir?” said the boy, grinning a wider grin.

“Do, Joseph? He wanted to go after the hounds, and took the bit in his teeth, and kicked when they crossed the road. I shall have to diet him. Give him some water, Joseph, but no corn.”

The poor pony might well shake his head, for it was a standing joke in Croppley that the doctor tried experiments on that pony: feeding him with chaff kept in an oaty bag, and keeping him low and grey hound-like of rib, for the sake of speed when a union patient was ill.

But the pony had to be fetched out again before Joseph had removed his saddle; for just as Mr Tiddson was taking off his gloves and overcoat, a man came running up to the door, and tore at the bell, panting the while with his exertions.

“Well, what now? Is Betty Starger worse?”

“No,”—puff—“no, sir;”—puff—“it’s—it’s—”

“Well? Why don’t you speak, man?”

“Breath, sir!”—puff. “Run—all way!—puff.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr Tiddson. “And now what is it?”

“Hax—haxiden, sir,” puffed the messenger.

“Bless my soul, my good man! Where?” exclaimed the doctor, rubbing his hands.

“Down by Crossroads, sir; and they war takin’ a gate off the hinges to lay him on, and carry him to the Seven Bells, when I run for you, sir.”

“And how was it?—and who is it?” said the doctor.

“Gent, sir; along o’ the hounds.”

“Here, stop a minute,” exclaimed the doctor, ringing furiously till a servant came. “Jane, tell Joseph to bring Peter round directly; I’m wanted.—Now go on, my good man,” he continued.

“See him comin’ myself, sir. Dogs had gone over the fallows, givin’ mouth bea-u-u-tiful, when he comes—this gent, you know—full tear, lifts his horse, clears the hedge, and drops into the lane—Rugley-lane, you know, sir, where the cutting is, with the sand-martins’ nestes in the bank. Well, sir, he comes down nice as could be, and then put his horse at t’other bank, as it couldn’t be expected to get up, though it did try; and then, before you know’d it, down it come back’ards, right on to the poor gent, and rolled over him, so that when three or four on us got up he was as white and still as your ’ankychy, sir, that he war; and so I come off arter you. And you ain’t got sech a thing as a drop o’ beer in the house, have you, sir?”

“No, my man, I have not,” said Mr Tiddson, mounting his steed, which had just been brought round to the front; “but if you will call at my surgery when I return, I daresay I can find you a glass of something.—Go on, Peter.”

But Peter did not seem disposed to go on; and it was not until his bare ribs had been drummed by the doctor’s heels, and he had been smitten between the ears by the doctor’s umbrella, that he condescended to shuffle off in a shambling trot—a pace that put the messenger to no inconvenience to keep alongside, since it was only about half the rate at which he had brought the news.

To have seen Mr, or, as he was generally called, Dr Tiddson ride, any one would have called to mind the printed form upon his medicine labels—“To be well shaken;” for he was well shaken in the process, and had at short intervals to push forward his hat, which made a point of getting down over his ears. But, though not effectively, Dr Tiddson and his pony Peter managed to shuffle over the ground, and arrived at the Seven Bells—a little roadside inn—just as four labouring men bore a gate to the door, and then, carefully lifting an insensible figure, carried it into the parlour, where a mattress had been prepared by the landlady.

Dr Tiddson did not have an accident to tend every day, while those he did have to do with were the mishaps of very ordinary people. This, then, was something to make him descend from his pony with the greatest of dignity, throwing the reins to the messenger, and entering the little parlour as if monarch of all he surveyed.

“Tut—tut—tut!” he exclaimed. “Clear the room directly; the man wants air. Mrs Pottles, send every one out, and lock that door.”

The sympathising landlady obeyed, and then the examination commenced.

“Hum!” muttered the doctor. “Ribs crushed—two, four, certainly; probable laceration of the right lobe; concussion of the brain, evidently. And what have we here? Dear me! A sad case, Mrs Pottles; a fracture of the clavicle, I fear.”

“Lawk a deary me! Poor gentleman! he ’ave got it bad,” said the landlady, raising her hands.

“Yes, Mrs Pottles,” said the doctor, compressing his lips, “it is, I fear, a serious case. But we must do what we can, Mrs Pottles—we must do what we can.”

“Of course we must, sir!” exclaimed the landlady. “And what shall us do first?”

“Let me see; another pillow, I think, Mrs Pottles,” said the doctor, not heeding the question. “He will not be able to leave here for some time to come.”

Mrs Pottles sighed; and then from time to time supplied the doctor with bandages, water, sponge, and such necessaries as he needed; when, the patient presenting an appearance of recovering from his swoon, they watched him attentively.

“He won’t die this time, Mrs Pottles,” said the doctor, with authority.

“Lawk a deary me! no, sir, I hope not,” said the landlady—“a fine, nice, handsome young fellow like he! He’ll live and break some ’arts yet, I’ll be bound. It’s all very well for old folks like us, sir, to die; but I shouldn’t like to see him go that-a-way—just when out taking his pleasure, too.”

Mr Tiddson did not consider himself one of the “old folks,” so did not reply.

“A poor dear!” said Mrs Pottles. “I wonder who he is? There’ll be more ’n one pair o’ bright eyes wet because of his misfortun’, I know. You’ve no idee, sir, how like he is to my Tom—him as got into that bit of trouble with the squire, sir.”

“Pooh, woman!—not a bit. Tchsh!”

The raised finger of the doctor accompanied his ejaculation, as the patient unclosed his eyes, muttered a little, and then, turning his head, seemed to sink into a state of half sleep, half stupor.

The doctor sat for some time before speaking, frowning severely at the landlady, and then impatiently pulling down the blind to get rid of half a dozen lads, who were spoiling the symmetry of their noses against the window.

“I s’pose you have no idea who he is?” said the doctor at last.

“Not the leastest bit in the world, sir. They do say they’ve had a tremenjus run to-day. But perhaps we shall have some of the gents coming back this way, and they may know him.”

“Precisely so, Mrs Pottles; but you’d better feel in his pockets, and we may be able to find out where his friends are, and so send them word of his condition.”

“Lawk a deary me, sir! But wouldn’t it be wrong for me to be peeping and poking in his pockets? But how so be if you wish it, sir, I’ll look.”

“I don’t wish it, Mrs Pottles; but it is our duty to acquaint his friends, so you had better search.”

Now Mrs Pottles’s fingers were itching to make an examination; and doubtless, had the doctor left, her first act would have been to “peep and poke,” as she termed it; so, taking up garment after garment, she drew out a handsome gold watch and seal chain with an eagle crest; then a cigar-case bearing the same crest, and the letters “C.Y.;” and lastly a plain porte-monnaie, containing four sovereigns and some silver.

“No information there, Mrs Pottles. But I’ll make a list of these, and leave them in your charge till the patient recovers.”

“Lawk a deary me, no, sir, don’t do that! We’re as honest as the day is long here, sir, so don’t put no temptation in our way. Make a list of the gentleman, if you like, and leave him in our charge, and we’ll nurse him well again; but you’d better take the watch and things along of you.”

“Very good, Mrs Pottles—ve-ery good,” said the doctor, noting down the articles he placed in his pocket, and thinking that, even if called upon for no further attendance, through the coming of some family doctor, he was safe of the amount in the porte-monnaie, for he considered that no gentleman would dream of taking that back.

“And you think he’ll get well, then, sir?” said Mrs Pottles.

“Ye-e-e-s—yes, with care, Mrs Pottles—with care. But I’ll ride over to my surgery now, and obtain a little medicine. I shall be back in an hour.”

Mrs Pottles curtsied him out, and then returned to seat herself by her injured visitor, looking with motherly admiration on his broad white forehead and thick golden beard, as she again compared him with her Tom, who got into that bit of trouble with the squire. But before the doctor had been gone an hour, the patient began to display sundry restless movements, ending by opening his eyes widely and fixing them upon the landlady.

“Who are you? and where am I?” he exclaimed. “Let me see, though—I recollect now: my horse came down with me. I don’t think I’m much hurt, though.”

“O, but you are, sir, and very badly, too. Mr Tiddson says you are to be very quiet.”

“Who the deuce is Mr Tiddson?” said the patient, trying to rise, but sinking back with a groan.

“Lawk a deary me, sir! I thought everybody know’d Mr Tiddson: he’s our doctor, and they do say as he’s very clever; but he ain’t in rheumatiz, for he never did me a bit o’ good.”

“Poor dad!” muttered the young man thoughtfully, and then aloud: “Give me a pen and ink and a sheet of paper.”

“But sewerly, sir, you’re not going to try to—”

“Get me the pen and ink, woman!” exclaimed the sufferer impatiently.

Mrs Pottles raised her hands, and then hurriedly placed a little dirty blotting-case before her guest, holding it and the rusty ink so that he was able to write a short note, which he signed, and then doubled hastily, for he was evidently in pain.

“Let some man take that to the King’s Arms at Lexville, and ask for Mr Bray. If he is not there, let them send for him; but the note is to be given to no one else.”

“Very good, sir,” said the woman; “but it’s a many miles there. How’s he to go?”

“Ride—ride!” exclaimed the sufferer impatiently, and then he sank back deeper in his pillow.

“I didn’t think, or I would have sent for some one else,” he muttered, after a pause; “but I daresay he will come.”

And then he lay thinking in a dreamy, semi-delirious fashion of the contents of that note—a note so short, and yet of itself containing matter that might bring to the writer a life of regret, and to another, loving, gentle, and true-hearted, the breaking of that true gentle heart, and the cold embrace of the bridegroom Death!