“Are you hurt, Jem?”
“Hurt, sir! I just am hurt—horrible. ’Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?”
“And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of ’em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I’m just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas’ Don; but that arn’t the worst of it, because it won’t hurt me. I’m a reg’lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse.”
“But are you in much pain now?”
“I should just think I am, Mas’ Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first.”
“Jem, my poor fellow!” groaned Don.
“Now don’t go on like that, Mas’ Don, and make it worse.”
“Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?”
“Not they, my lad; and I don’t want one. You’d be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let’s talk.”