Or so Tranter Fox estimated while he was hauling him out of it. “Didn’t ee spy that great plank, Jack? ’Tis yer own fault fer slitherin’ down in thur when any man can see there’m a board wide as two counties acrost un. Did ee slip? Christ, ee’re heavy. Quit heavin’ and give over yer arm. Now take yer feet t’ squinch out o’t. That’s it, that’s it. There you be. Phaw! Ee’re one bleedin’ mess, Jack, sink me if you ain’t.” The murky glow from the candle in Tranter’s hat—Connor’s had gone out—shed just enough light to reveal the literalness of his words: Connor was a bleeding mess. His left side felt fiery-hot, and warm blood was running down the inside of his left arm and dripping off his fingers. “Best go up,” Tranter advised. “Ee don’t look hale, not a’tall, and wounds’re like to fester quick down here in the hot and wet. Go up, get Annie Whited t’ tend you, there’m a brave lad.” “Who’s Annie Whited?”
