“Well, squire,” he said, “you seem determined to be a patient. How are you now?”
“My head aches a good deal.”
“No wonder, my lad, you got an ugly crack with the flat of a tomahawk. The man must have slipped as he was leaping from the fence. A narrow escape for you.”
“But the Indians are beaten off,” I said, eagerly.
“For the present at all events. But they may attack again to-night, and I am beginning to be busy.”
“Must I stop here, sir?”
“Certainly not, if you feel well enough to get up.”
At that moment a shadow darkened the door, and my father came in quickly, followed by Hannibal.
“George? Hurt?” he exclaimed, huskily.
“Not much, father,” I said, “and the doctor says I may get up.”