But at the moment we entered this field, whom should we see approaching us
at right angles, from the direction of Purleybridge, but Harry Armstrong,
mounted on _the_ mare! I rode towards him.
"Trapped, you see," said I. "Are you after the fox--or some nobler game?"
"I was going my rounds," answered Harry, "when I caught sight of the
hounds. I have no very pressing case to day, so I turned a few yards out
of the road to see a bit of the sport. Confound these railways!"
At the moment--and all this passed, as the story-teller is so often
compelled to remind his reader, in far less time than it takes to tell--
over the hedge on the opposite side from where Harry had entered the
field, blundered a country fellow, on a great, heavy, but spirited horse,
and ploughed his way up the soft furrow to where we stood.
"Doctor!" he cried, half-breathless with haste and exertion--"Doctor!"
"Well?" answered Henry, alert.
"There's a awful accident at Grubblebon Quarry, sir. Powder blowed up.
Legs and arms! Good God! sir, make haste.
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