Then they set him down, and McConnell began to cry and laugh at the same time, and to dance around until Owen said, “McConnell, you’re as crazy as the old man of the hut.”
But McConnell didn’t care. He hugged Allan’s hand without a word until Allan said, “What are you fellows doing?”
“Oh, nothing!” replied Owen. “Only trying to get you back where you started from.”
Allan put his hand to his head. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I slipped, didn’t I?”
“I should say you did.”
“And I grabbed a limb of the tree, and it broke with me, and my head struck another limb, I think, that swung me around. Yes, here it is—feel that walnut I’ve got here,” and Owen found the spot where Allan’s head had suffered in the tumble.
Allan started to his feet, then sank down again. “Oh, I’m not broken,” he faintly assured Owen; “but things are swimming around frightfully. Will you keep still, McConnell?”
After a while Owen gave Allan a little help, and they pushed and dragged him up through the opening to the top, where the queer old man stood with his hands in his pockets.
“This way,” commanded the old man, as if he knew just what had happened; and he led the way toward the hut, at the door of which he paused, made Allan sit on the step, and disappeared within.
When he reappeared, the old man had a cup in his hand. “Drink this,” he said to Allan, extending his hand.