"Ess, of course; wheer should it be from?" said Sally. Then she fluttered away, scarcely seeing where she walked.
The boy, Tommy Bates, was sitting beside Libby, and a moment later he spoke.
"Lard, Greg! what's tuke 'e? You'm starin' like a sheep."
"Doan't knaw, ezacally. I'm—I'm——"
"You'm gone dough-colour, an' theer's perspiration come out 'pon 'e so big as peas!" cried candid Tommy.
"I'm bad—mortal bad—'struth, I be dyin' I b'lieve! 'Tis here it's took me."
He clapped his hands to his stomach, rolled over on the ground and groaned, while his companion hastened to cry the catastrophe.
"Greg Libby's struck down! He'm thrawin' his life up, an' wrigglin' an' twistin' like a gashly worm!"
"Ah, I seed un wi'out his hat," said Mr. Ash calmly.
"A bit naish an' soft, I reckon; comes o' not standin' to work," spoke Henry Collins contemptuously.