“Where’s my clothes?”
As he spoke, there was the sound of footsteps, and the medical man and the messenger who had been sent to bring him hurried up.
“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I was right at the other end of the parish, and had to be fetched. Is this the patient?”
Dicksee had now huddled the blanket round him, and began in a whining, queer way,—
“What’s been the matter? What are you all doing? Here, somebody, I want my clothes.”
“No occasion to have fetched me,” said the surgeon, smiling. “You’ve brought him round, I see. They’re often like this when they’ve been nearly drowned. Come, squire, can you dress yourself?”
“Yes, if you’ll all go away,” cried Dicksee in a snarling tone. “Who’s a-going to dress with you all a-staring like that?”
“Go into the shed, Dicksee,” said Mr Rebble. “Can you walk?”
“Of course, I can, sir;” and he scrambled up.
“Had a long job of course,” said the surgeon; and then— “He don’t seem very grateful for being brought back to life. Well, gentlemen, there’s little to do. Let him go to bed soon, and have a good night’s rest. I don’t suppose he will be much worse in the morning when I come.”