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nothing happened. Jacobs leaned forward, putting his mouth over Mr. Brown’s and trying to force air into his lungs. He waited a few seconds and tried again.
    In desperation, he began to pound Mr. Brown with his fists, hitting him so hard I feared he might break his ribs.
    “Come on, Basil!” he shouted. “Come back!”
    Still there was no response. Beside me, Ellen started to cry. Jacobs rocked back onto his heels. Just as he did so, a shiver passed all the way along Mr. Brown’s body. He started to shake; his back was bucking, his legs jerking up and down. He gave a long, hacking cough and sucked noisily for air.
    I felt such a sense of relief that it made my head spin. Meanwhile, Grateley had fetched some water. He held a tin cup to Mr. Brown’s lips, tipping it up. The cup rattled against his teeth. Most of the water ran out of the side of his mouth. Some, though, he managed to swallow.
    For several more minutes he lay there, his breathing becoming less tremulous. Then he raised himself up on one elbow. He looked at each of us, blinking the mud away.
    “Damn …” he said. “Damn and blast.” His voice was faint, but perfectly clear.
    “Just lie back and try to relax,” I told him.
    He took no notice of this. Holding on to Jacobs’s sleeve, he tried to force it downwards towards him. At the same time, his feet started paddling round, churning up the dirt.
    “What on earth are you doing, Mr. Brown?”
    His feet continued to spin feebly as he clutched at Grateley. “Be fine once I’m standing,” he said.
    “You will do no such thing. Do you understand me?”
    “Yes, you just listen to Mrs. Pretty, Basil,” said Spooner.
    But again he took no notice. With some difficulty, Jacobs managed to unclench Mr. Brown’s fingers from his sleeve. Looking greatly offended, Mr. Brown fell back onto the ground.
    “Could you find something to carry him to the house on?” I said to the men.
    In the end they used a tarpaulin, rolling Mr. Brown over onto the center of it. He was so light that the three of them had no difficulty in carrying him; the tarpaulin scarcely saggedin the middle as they did so. I asked them to take him into the sitting room and lay him on the sofa. Then I went to the cloakroom to wash my hands and to fill a jug of water.
    When I came back, once again Mr. Brown tried to stand up, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa. Immediately, they crumpled beneath him and he collapsed onto the cushions.
    “Mr. Brown, kindly do as you are told. You are clearly suffering from shock. And quite possibly from concussion.”
    He did not reply to this, but lay there, looking up at the ceiling with his lips pressed together. A few moments later his chest began heaving again. Immediately afterwards, he started to retch. A stream of coffee-colored vomit spurted onto the carpet.
    As he was being sick, I sat beside him, holding the back of his head. Once he had finished, I gave him some more water to drink before fetching a bowl and a cloth and wiping up the vomit.
    “So sorry,” he said.
    “There is no need to apologize.”
    Once again he started to shake, emitting a series of faint moans as he did so. Breaths bubbled and burst on his lips. When the shaking subsided, he lay back and stared at the ceiling through unblinking eyes. I gave him more water to drink. I could hear the gurgle as it passed down his throat. We both waited to see if it would come back up. When he was confident that it would not, Mr. Brown started to say something else.
    “Try not to speak,” I told him.
    However, his lips continued working away. “Rabbits,” he said eventually — the word seeming to topple out of the side of his mouth.
    “Rabbits, Mr. Brown?”
    “Rabbits,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “I told you they were bad for excavation, didn’t I?”
    “You did indeed, although I don’t believe this is the time to go through all that again.”
    “It was my fault,” he continued. “I should have cut back