“Not hurt badly like me, is he, Master Fred?”
“No; he has escaped wonderfully.”
“I’m glad of that, sir, because I shouldn’t like for anybody else to give him his lesson. That’s to be my job, as soon as I get better. I’m going to take him in hand, Master Fred, and weed him. He’s full o’ rubbish, and I’m going to make him a better man. A villain! fighting again his own brother.”
“There, Nat, drink a little more water, and eat some of this cake, and then I’ll go and get help to have you carried up to camp.”
“What? A prisoner? No, Master Fred. Sooner die where I am, than let that Samson see me like this, and jump upon me.”
“Nonsense! Samson’s a good fellow at heart, and as soon as he sees you in trouble, he’ll be only too glad to help you.”
“Not he, sir; he’s my born enemy.”
“He’s your brother, and I shall send him, for one, to fetch you.”
“No, Master Fred, don’t; don’t, pray don’t, sir. Let me lie here. I don’t feel the cold and wet much, and if you’d come once a day and bring me a bit o’ bread and a drop o’ water, I shall soon get well. Don’t have me made a prisoner, sir.”
“But I can’t leave you helpless, and—”