“Neb Dumlow’s got a hole in him somewheres, sir,” said Barney.
“Wish you’d keep that tongue o’ yourn quiet, Barney,” growled Dumlow. “Who said he’d got a hole in him, my lad?”
“Why, you did,” cried Barney, “and I knowed it without. Didn’t I hear you squeak?”
“Well, only just then. It was sharp for a moment, but it’s better now.”
“Let me pass you, my man,” said the doctor quietly.
“There you are, sir. This way. Neb’s on the next thwart.”
“You needn’t come to me, sir,” protested Dumlow. “I’m all light, I tied a bit o’ line round the place. You can give me a pill or a shedlicks powder or something o’ that kind to-morrow if you like.”
“Hold your tongue, Neb, and let the doctor tie you up,” growled Bob Hampton. “What’s the use of being so jolly independent? Don’t you take no notice o’ what he says, sir. Dessay he’s got a reeg’lar hole in him.”
“Tut tut tut!” muttered Mr Frewen. “What is this,—fishing-line?”
“That’s it, sir,” said Dumlow. “It’s right enough, there arn’t no knobs on it, and it stopped the bleeding fine.”