“Quite sure, my lad. You wouldn’t be talking like that if your neck was broken.”
“P’l’aps not,” sighed Wing. “Bleak to bit evelywheh, no alm, no leg. Oh deah! oh deah!”
“Now then, I want to lay you out straight so as to feel your body all over.”
“Lay stlaight?” cried the poor fellow, with more animation. “Leady to buly poo’ Wing?”
“Nonsense!” cried Stan warmly. “No one thinks of such a thing. Let me lay that arm close beside you.”
“No, no,” sighed the poor fellow. “Wing don’t wantee see aim come off.”
“It won’t come off, my man,” said Blunt kindly.—“That’s right, Lynn. Well done! It’s not broken. Neither is this,” he continued as, with the patient still groaning, the other arm was tenderly examined and laid straight.—“Hurt you very much, Wing?”
“Not velly much. Bloken off. Wing can’t feel.”
Stan glanced at Blunt, and saw him frown and look more stern as he met his companion’s eyes to exchange a look full of intelligence.
“Now his legs,” said Blunt then. “Both together. Lay them out straight.”