He was still insensible; but he lived.

Reverend Finch--not of the slightest help to anybody--assumed the duty of feeling Oscar's pulse.

He did it as if, under the circumstances, this was the one meritorious action that could be performed.

He looked as if nobody could feel a pulse but himself.
"Most fortunate," he said, counting the slow, faint throbbing at the poor fellow's wrist--"most fortunate that I was at home.

What would you have done without me ?" The next necessity was, of course, to send for the doctor, and to get help, in the meantime, to carry Oscar up-stairs to his bed.
Gootheridge volunteered to borrow a horse, and to ride off for the doctor.