Ned examined himself, inwardly, a moment, to determine what his exact state might be. He could place no pain; but this was what seemed awful: that he might be dreadfully wounded somewhere, and yet not know it!
“Where did it hit me, Tom?” he asked, faintly, and not daring to stir.
“I shot your shoulder all to pieces!” cried Tom, wildly. “And my gun wasn’t even cocked!”
Ned fearfully looked over at his left shoulder. He beheld his coat at that spot in tatters, and his whole left sleeve torn so that it hung in only threads.
With such havoc made, surely there ought to be pain; but on the contrary the sole sensation was a curious numbness in his left side and extending to his left elbow.
He wondered if it could be true that he was about to die. He found himself not afraid, although it was hard to die away off there, in the open country, beside a slough. He was sorry for himself, and for his father and mother, and for Tom. What would Bob think? What would the boys and girls say? Poor little Zu-zu would cry and cry, and keep his duck wings forever.
“Can you move your arm? Try!” implored Tom.
Ned cautiously tried, and found that he could swing his arm and wiggle his fingers. But it was as though he was experimenting with the arm of somebody else.
Both were now becoming somewhat more hopeful. Of the two, Tom, as was natural, was the more excited and frightened, because upon his head rested the accident, and because it was he who could view the full extent of the damage.
Ned could only imagine; Tom could both see and imagine.