“Oh, he’s all right, sir,” said Barney. “We didn’t break him. He’s all out.”
“No, he arn’t all right,” growled Bob, who was feeling about in the dark. “He’s in a reg’lar muddle, I dunno what’s the matter with him. Strikes me we’ve pulled him inside out.”
“Go on with yer. It’s all right. It’s on’y his jersey pulled right over his head and shoulders, and most off his arms. That’s the way. There you are. You’re all right now, arn’t you, Neb?”
“Oh, my heye!” muttered the great fellow, and I felt a profound sense of satisfaction in hearing him speak again. “I began to think I was a goner.”
“Not you,” said Bob.
“Warn’t the skin all off o’ me, Barney?”
“Nay, not it, lad.”
“Sure? Felt as if you was a-stripping of it all off o’ me when I began to come.”
“Nay, you’re in your skin right enough, messmate.”
“Sure, Barney? ’Cause I feel precious sore uppards.”