“Oh, if that’s it,” said Nat, feebly, “it’s time there was an end to all this nonsense. Here, give’s a hand, Master Scar. I must get up.”
The poor fellow made an effort, then sank back with a groan.
“Pitchforks and skewers!” he muttered. “Didn’t that go through one.”
“Lie still, Nat.”
“Needn’t be afraid, Master Scar,” groaned the poor fellow, with a comical look in his young master’s face. “I don’t think I shall get up yet.”
“No; lie still. I’m going to try and steal away to the Manor.”
“Eh? Then if you come across my brother Samson, you knock him down, sir. Don’t you hesitate a moment. Knock him down.”
“Nonsense! Now look here.”
“Oh yes, sir, I’m a-looking,” said Nat, dismally; “and a pretty dirty face you’ve got.”
“What do you mean?”