“Hard? I should think it was. I’m sure there’s a rib broken, if not two.”
“Oh, my own darling boy!” cried Mrs Wilton, embracing him.
“Don’t, mother; you hurt. Be off, and leave me alone. Tell him I shan’t come.”
“No, no, my dear; pray make an effort and come down.”
“Shan’t, I tell you. Now go!”
“But—but—Claud, dear, he threatened to come up with a horse whip and fetch you.”
“What!” cried Claud, springing up on the bed without wincing, and staring at his mother; “did he say that?”
“Yes, my love,” faltered the mother.
“Then you go down and tell him to come, and I’ll knock his old head off.”
“Oh, Claud, my dear boy, you shouldn’t. I can not sit here and listen to such parricidical talk.”