Derek felt immensely relieved to be back in the street without it. He went to The Duke of York and had a little whiskey neat.
His cold was worse, a cough was developing, yet he would not set out for home till he had bought the boy a new pair of shoes. Shiny patent leather strap slippers he got with little buckles. He pictured Buckskin's kicks and crows of delight when they were put on him.
He was really getting anxious about Buckskin. Suppose he fell off the couch someway and got to the fire! Or Jock might get rough with him. Jock wouldn't actually hurt him, but he might get a bit rough. He covered the last two miles at a gallop.
He gave his horse to Bill at the barn and hurried to the house. "Buckskin!" he called, as he unlocked the kitchen door and stamped the snow off his feet. "Hello, Buck!"
Jock came to him through the pantry crawling on his belly.
What was wrong? For God's sake what was wrong? Buckskin! Buck!
He was lying, wedged, between the row of chairs and the couch. He was writhing—twisting. The whites of his eyes showed through the half-closed lids, his lips were blue.
Derek snatched him up and shook him. Buckskin! Waken up! Thank God, there came a flicker of those white eyelids!
Oh, for a woman! Any woman! Lottie Rain. . . . Miles away. . . . Mrs. Chard. He laid the child on the pillow and ran wildly through the house. He crashed through the dry currant and gooseberry bushes. Bang! bang! at Chard's back door! Mrs. Chard opened, her arms white with flour, flour on her nose, fright in her eyes.
"Whatever is the matter?" she asked.
"My boy—my little chap—dying!"
