“Wing keep on bleathe lil bit longeh. Not dead yet.”
“‘Not dead yet: see the Quiver,’” said Blunt softly to himself, as, incongruously enough, there came to his mind the words on one of the great bills which appeared upon nearly all the hoardings in London many years ago.
“Breathe again, Wing,” continued Blunt. “Draw in as long a breath as you can.—Well, do you hear me?”
“Wing ’flaid,” was the reply.
“Afraid? What of?”
“’Flaid nevah bleathe again; so bad.”
“Stuff! Do as I tell you.”
“Oh deah! oh deah!” sighed the poor fellow as he obeyed, and retained his breath for some time.
“Well, does that hurt you very much?”
“N-no, n-no,” sobbed the man. “Not velly much.”