“Yes, I’ll bathe it and see to it soon,” said Pen eagerly; “but you are no worse.”
“Ain’t I? I—I thought I was. I say, look here, Gray; what does this mean? I can’t lift this arm at all. It hurts so.”
“Yes. Stiff with your wound; but it will be better when I have done it up.”
“Think so?”
“Yes.”
“But look here.”
“Yes, I am looking.”
“This arm isn’t wounded. Look at that.”
“Yes, I see; you lifted it up and it fell down again.”
“Yes. There’s no strength in it. It ain’t dead yet?”