“Am I?” George cried, wildly, hopefully. “Am I hurt, I say?”
“You will probably have a black eye,” Mr. Lawrence sorrowfully observed, as the explorer emerged from the cinders.
“Am I much bruised?” he asked, turning to Stephen, certain that that worthy would do him justice. “Am I, Steve? I don’t feel hurt or bruised a bit.”
Quick-witted Steve saw what was going on in the questioner’s mind, and replied, promptly: “Bruised? Why, you’re a frightful object—a vagabond scare-crow! You must be wounded from your Scotch cap to the toe of your left boot. You’ve secured not only an exceedingly black eye, but also a swelled cheek, a protuberant forehead, a stiff neck, a singed chin, a sprained wrist, and, for all I know, a cracked skull! Why, George, you’re a total wreck! The folks at home will think that we took you for some wild beast, and that each of us fired at you and hit you.”
The Sage turned away with a happy smile on his lips.
“Surely,” he soliloquised, “Steve wouldn’t go so far if there isn’t something wrong. But I hope there is no danger of a black eye!”
Then aloud, and cheerfully: “Yes, boys, let us go home.”
Do not imagine, gentle reader, that this hunter fell purposely. He was not so foolish as that; but when he did have a fall, he wished to profit by it. Still, he could see neither romance nor poetry in gaining nothing but a black eye.
It is worse than useless to prolong their conversation, so here it closes.
The hunters felt somewhat crest-fallen when they found that the fire had consumed almost everything left in the cabin. However, they packed their remaining effects in some new boxes, and then set out for home in pretty good spirits. They arrived safe, and were welcomed as wounded heroes, as Steve had foretold.