“Crikey! that's jolly,” said he; “give me another toss or two.”
“Oh no! no!” said a good-natured maid. “Take an' put him to bed right off, poor dear.”
“Hold your tongue, ye bitch,” said young hopeful; “if ye don't toss me, I'll turn ye all off, as soon as ever the old un kicks the bucket.”
Thus menaced, they thought it prudent to toss him; but, at the third toss, he yelled out, “Oh! oh! oh! I'm all wet; it's blood! I'm dead!”
Then they examined, and found his arm was severely lacerated by an old nail that had been driven into the tree, and it had torn the flesh in his fall: he was covered with blood, the sight of which quenched his manly spirit, and he began to howl.
“Old linen rag, warm water, and a bottle of champagne,” shouted Rolfe: the servants flew.
Rolfe dressed and bandaged the wound for him, and then he felt faint: the champagne soon set that right; and then he wanted to get drunk, alleging, as a reason, that he had not been drunk for this two months.
Sir Charles was told of the accident, and was distressed by it, and also by the cause.
“Rolfe,” said he, sorrowfully, “there is a ring-dove's nest on that tree: she and hers have built there in peace and safety for a hundred years, and cooed about the place. My unhappy boy was climbing the tree to take the young, after solemnly promising me he never would: that is the bitter truth. What shall I do with the young barbarian?”
He sighed, and Lady Bassett echoed the sigh.