“Then there are no broken ribs, Lynn. Look here.”
As he spoke Blunt passed his hands firmly about the sufferer’s chest, even going so far as to press the ribs inward, without eliciting more than a faint groan.
“There!” said Blunt; “nothing is broken. The injury must be to the back.”
“Yes,” said Wing, uttering a whimper. “Back. Velly, velly bad.”
“Come, let’s see,” said Blunt. “We’ll have you carried into the big office now, and knock you up a bed of some kind. Give me your hand.—Take the other, Lynn, and let’s raise him up into a sitting posture. Gently, mind.”
“No, no; plea’, plea’ don’t!”
“Why not?” said Blunt, who was watching the man keenly.
“Back bloke. Come in two bit. Bleak light off. Leave poo’ Wing leg lie all alone.”
“Well, well!” said Blunt gently; “never mind; be a man. If you come right in two we’ll fasten you up tightly again with sticking-plaster. You’ll soon grow together again.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Wing, looking sharply from one to the other, but looking in vain, for Stan took his cue from his companion and preserved a perfectly serious countenance.