“I know; I remember. Oh! I say, Mr Brazier, you haven’t shot that poor cat?”
“Rob, my boy, pray, pray, pray lie down till we have examined your injuries.”
“Nonsense! I’m not hurt,” cried the lad—“only knocked my head on a stump. I remember now: I caught my right foot in one of those canes, and pitched forward. Where’s the cat?”
He looked round sharply.
“Never mind the wretched beast,” cried Brazier. “Tell me, boy: you were not hit?”
“But I do mind,” cried Rob. “I wouldn’t have had that poor thing shot on any account.”
“Are you hurt?” cried Brazier, almost angrily.
“Of course I am, sir. You can’t pitch head first on to a stump without hurting yourself. I say, did you hit the cat?”
“Then you were not shot?” cried Brazier.
“Shot? No! Who said I was?”