Poor Wing lay for about a couple of hours, during which everything possible was done, and then he began to recover rapidly, when, after superintending, the manager insisted upon the poor fellow doing nothing but try and sleep.
“Wing wantee tell Misteh Blunt evelyting,” he said, with a piteous look.
“Not now,” said Blunt sharply. “Get well first.”
“Allee velly dleadful,” said the poor fellow feebly.
“Yes, I know; but I’m not going to blame you, my man. You did your best. Get strong again, and tell me all about the troubles then.”
Wing gave him a horrified look, glanced at Stan and then back at Blunt, his countenance looking drawn and his complexion more sallow than ever, while his lips moved as if he was speaking, but no sound came.
“Well, why don’t you rest?” cried Blunt. “What’s the matter with you? Been so much frightened?”
Wing nodded sharply, and gave Stan a look full of horror and despair.
“Why, what’s the matter with the fellow? Not been wounded, have you?”
Wing shook his head.