“No, no; not so bad as that. Come, come; I’ll be gentle with you. I want to see where you’re hurt before I have you lifted up.”
“No, no; plea’ don’t,” sobbed the poor fellow, with the tears running down his cheeks. “Not quite dead yet.”
“No, no; of course not.”
“Don’t let the boys buly me yet a bit. Velly dleadful; makee poo’ man flighten.”
“Bury you? Nonsense! Who’s going to bury a live man?”
“Only half alive. Oh deah! oh deah! Oh-h-h!”
“Come, come; be a man,” said Blunt gently as he softly raised the poor fellow’s head, manipulating it gently the while, and laying it down again. “Does that hurt very much?”
“N-no,” sighed the sufferer. “Not head bleak. All to piecee evely place, not head.”
“Then you’re not going to die, I hope,” said Blunt. “Your skull is not fractured, and the hinges of your neck are not broken.”
“You suah?”