“Hurt, Jem?” cried Don, forcing his way to his side.
“Hurt? Now is it likely, Mas’ Don? Hurt? No. I feel just like a babby that’s been lifted gently down and laid on a feather cushion. That’s ’bout how I feel. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Here, give’s a hand. Gently, dear lad; I’m like a skin full o’ broken bones. Help me out o’ this tangle, and let’s see how much of me’s good, and how much ’ll have to be throwed away. Eggs and bacon! What a state I’m in!”
Don helped him as tenderly as he could out into an open space, and softly assisted him to lie down, which Jem did, groaning, and was perfectly still for a few moments flat there on his back.
“Are you in much pain, Jem?” said Don, anxiously.
“Horrid, lad, horrid. I think you’d better go on and warn ’em, and come and fetch me arterwards; only don’t forget where I am, and not find me. Look! There’s two o’ them birds coming to see what’s the matter.”
“I can’t leave you, Jem. You’re of more consequence to me than all the New Zealanders in the place.”
“Am I, Mas’ Don? Come, that’s kindly spoke of you. But bother that tree! Might ha’ behaved as well to me as t’other did to you.”
“Where do you feel in pain, Jem?”
“Where? It’s one big solid slapping pain all over me, but it’s worst where there’s a big thorn stuck in my arm.”
“Let me see.”