“What’s he going to do?” said Punch in a whisper.
He comprehended the next minute, and eagerly lent his aid, for the little priest, twisting up his gown and securing it round his waist, began to prove himself a worthy descendant of the Good Samaritan, though wanting in the ability to set the wounded traveller upon his own ass.
Going down, though, upon one knee, he took hold of first one hand and then the other, and, with Punch’s assistance to his own natural strength, he got Pen upon his back, hitching him up a little, and then a little more, till he had drawn the wounded lad’s arms across his chest.
This done, he knelt there on one knee, panting, before drawing a deep breath prior to rising with his burden. Then he tried to stand up, but without success.
He waited, then tried again; but once more without success, for the weight was greater than he had anticipated.
“Can’t you manage it, sir?” said Punch. “Here, let me try.”
The little priest shook his head, but released one of Pen’s hands and caught hold of Punch by the shoulder.
“Yes, I know, sir,” cried Punch, and after waiting till their new friend was ready, the boy brought his strength to bear as well, and the little priest stood up, gave his load a hitch or two to balance it well upon his shoulders, and then looked sharply at Punch and then at his hat.
“Carry your hat, sir?” cried Punch excitedly, “of course I will. It will be all right.”
The priest shook his head.