As the light shone on the man and he recognized Jonathan Gay, he hesitated an instant, as though uncertain whether to advance or retreat.
"If I'd known 'twas you," he observed gruffly, "I shouldn't have been so quick about getting down out of my gig." "Thank you, all the same," replied Gay in his pleasant voice.

"It doesn't seem to be a stone, after all," he added.

"I'm rather afraid he got a sprain when he stumbled into a hole a yard or two back." Kneeling in the road, Abel lifted the horse's foot, and felt for the injury with a practised hand.
"Needs a bandage," he said at last curtly.

"I happen to have a bottle of liniment in the gig." The light glided like a winged insect over the strip of corduroy road, and a minute later the pungent odour of the liniment floated to Gay's nostrils.
"Give me anything you have for a compress," remarked the miller, dropping again on his knees.

"Pick a few of those Jimson weeds by the fence and lend me your handkerchief--or a couple of them would be still better.