“An’ am I much hurt?” cried Dinny, “whin there isn’t a bit of me as big as saxpence that hasn’t got a thorn shtuck in it?”
“Oh, never mind the thorns,” said Mr Rogers, laughing.
“Shure, I don’t, sor; they moight all be burnt for the bit I’d care. But shure, sor, it isn’t at all funny when you’ve got the thorns in ye.”
“No, no, of course not, Dinny,” said his master, “and it is unfeeling to laugh. But are you hurt anywhere?”
“Shure, sor, I’m telling ye that I’m hurt all over me, ivery-where.”
“But the rhinoceros—”
“The which, sor? Sure, I didn’t know that any part of me was called a rhinoceros.”
“No, no, I mean the animal that charged you.”
“An’ that’s a rhinoceros is it, sor? Shure, I thought it was a big African pig wid a horn in his nose.”
“Yes, that’s a rhinoceros, Dinny. Come, did it hurt you when it charged you?”