“I—I don’t know; I struggled through it, somehow, and then fell down insensible.”
“Onsensible, course yer did, sir. It knocks all the gumption out on yer ’fore yer knows where yer are. Ahoy! mate! This way, Tommy. Here he is!”
The trees below them had been parted, and, all scratched and bleeding, Smith appeared, and as soon as he caught sight of Lane, he slapped his legs heavily, turned round, and yelled aloud.
Then he ran up at a trot, grinning hugely.
“That’s you, sir,” he cried, “and I’m glad on it. They said as we should only find yer cold corpus, and ‘No,’ I says, ‘if we finds his corpus at all, it won’t be cold but hot roast. There’s no getting cold here. But I knows better. Too much stuff in him,’ I says. ‘He’ll sarcumwent all the trouble somehow. Master Oliver Lane aren’t the lad to lie down and give up,’ and I was right, warn’t I, Billy?”
“Ay, mate, you was right this time.”
“Course I was, Billy; but yer needn’t ha’ been in such a hurry to find Mr Lane all to yerself. But yer allus was a graspin’ sort o’ chap, Billy.”
“You’re another,” growled Wriggs; “but don’t stand hargeying there. Here’s Mr Lane that stiff he can’t move hisself, and he wants us to give him a real ’poo.”
“Whatcher mean, mate?”
“Well, a shampoo, then.”