The woman promptly produced a cotton shirt, which the youth tore up into long strips. Making a pad of one of these, he placed it under the boy’s arm-pit despite of sobs and resistance. This pad acted as a fulcrum on which the arm rested as a lever. Pressing the elbow close to the boy’s side he thus forced the shoulder outwards, and, with his left hand, set the bone with its two broken ends together. To secure it in this position he bound the arm pretty firmly to the boy’s body, so that he could not move a muscle of the left arm or shoulder.

“There,” said the youth, assisting his patient to put on his shirt, “that will keep all straight. You must not on any account remove the bandage for some weeks.”

“How long, sur?” exclaimed the woman in surprise.

“For some weeks; but that will depend on how the little fellow gets on. He may go about and use his right arm as he pleases, but no more climbing on walls for some time to come. Do you hear, little man?”

The urchin, whose pain was somewhat relieved, and who had moderated down to an occasional deep sob, said “Iss.”

“You’re a doctor, sur, I think?” said the woman.

“Yes, I am; and I’ll come to see you again, so be careful to attend to my directions. Good-morning.”

“Good mornin’, sur, an’ thank ’ee!” exclaimed the grateful dame as the youth left the house, and, leaping the low enclosure in front of it, sped over the moor in the direction which had been pointed out to him.

His resolution to ignore roads cost our traveller more trouble than he had anticipated, for the moor was very rugged, the brambles vexatious, and the spines of the gorse uncommonly sharp. Impediments of every kind were more numerous than he had been accustomed to meet with even on the heath-clad hills of Scotland, with which—although “the land of the mountain and the flood” was not that of his birth—he had from childhood been familiar.

After a good deal of vigorous leaping and resolute scrambling, he reached one of those peculiar Cornish lanes which are so deeply sunk in the ground, and edged with such high solid walls, that the wayfarer cannot in many places see the nature of the country through which he is passing. The point at which he reached the lane was so overgrown with gorse and brambles that it was necessary to search for a passage through them. This not being readily found, he gave way to the impetuosity of his disposition, stepped back a few paces, cleared the obstacles with a light bound, and alighted on the edge of the bank, which gave way under his weight, and he descended into the lane in a shower of stones and dust, landing on his feet more by chance than by dexterity.

A shout of indignation greeted the traveller, and, turning abruptly round, he beheld a stout old gentleman stamping with rage, covered from head to foot with dust, and sputtering out epithets of opprobrium on the hapless wight who had thus unintentionally bespattered him.

“Ugh! hah! you young jackanapes—you blind dumbledory—ugh! What mean you by galloping over the country thus like a wild ass—eh?”

A fit of coughing here interrupted the choleric old gentleman, in the midst of which our hero, with much humility of demeanour, many apologies, and protestations of innocence of intention to injure, picked up the old gentleman’s hat, assisted him to brush his clothes with a bunch of ferns, and in various other ways sought to pacify him.

The old man grumbled a good deal at first, but was finally so far mollified as to say less testily, while he put on his hat, “I warrant me, young man, you are come on some wild-goose chase to this out-o’-the-way region of the land in search of the picturesque—eh?—a dauber on canvas?”

“No, sir,” replied the youth, “I profess not to wield the pencil or brush, although I admit to having made feeble efforts as an amateur. The scalpel is more to my taste, and my object in coming here is to visit a relative. I am on my way to St. Just; but, having wandered somewhat out of my road, have been obliged to strike into bypaths, as you see.”

“As I see, young man!—yes, and as I feel,” replied the old gentleman, with some remains of asperity.

“I have already expressed regret for the mischance that has befallen you,” said the youth in grey somewhat sternly, for his impulsive spirit fired a little at the continued ill-humour of the old gentleman. “Perhaps you will return good for evil by pointing out the way to St. Just. May I venture to ask this favour of you?”

“You may venture, and you have ventured; and it is my belief, young man, that you’ll venture many a thing before this world has done with you; however, as you are a stranger in these parts, and have expressed due penitence for your misdeed, though I more than half doubt your sincerity, I can do no less than point out the road to St. Just, whither I will accompany you at least part of the way; and, young sir, as you have taken pretty free liberty with me this morning, may I take the liberty of asking you the name of your relative in St. Just? I am well acquainted with most of the inhabitants of that town.”

“Certainly,” replied the youth. “The gentleman whom I am going to visit is my uncle. His name is Donnithorne.”

“What! Tom Donnithorne?” exclaimed the old gentleman, in a tone of surprise, as he darted a keen glance from under his bushy eyebrows at his companion. “Hah! then from that fact I gather that you are Oliver Trembath, the young doctor whom he has been expecting the last day or two. H’m—so old Tom Donnithorne is your uncle, is he?”

The youth in grey did not relish the free and easy, not to say patronising, tone of his companion, and felt inclined to give a sharp answer, but he restrained his feelings and replied,—“He is, and you are correct in your supposition regarding myself. Do you happen to know my uncle personally?”

“Know him personally!” cried the old gentleman with a sardonic laugh; “Oh yes, I know him intimately—intimately; some people say he’s a very good fellow.”

“I am glad to hear that, for to say truth—”

He paused abruptly.

“Ha! I suppose you were going to say that you have heard a different account of him—eh?”

“Well, I was going to observe,” replied Oliver, with a laugh, “that my uncle is rather a wild man for his years—addicted to smuggling, I am told, and somewhat given to the bottle; but it is well known that tattlers give false reports, and I am delighted to hear that the old boy is not such a bad fellow after all.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the other. “Then you have never seen him, I suppose?”

“No, never; although I am a Cornishman I have seen little of my native county, having left it when a little boy—before my uncle came to live in this part of the country.”

“H’m—well, young man, I would advise you to beware of that same uncle of yours.”

“How!” exclaimed the youth in surprise; “did you not tell me just now that he is a very good fellow?”

“No, sir, I did not. I told you that some people say he is a very good fellow, but for myself I think him an uncommonly bad man, a man who has done me great injury in his day—”

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