“Lean on me.”
“No; I’m going to lean on myself,” said Jem, stoutly. “I’m pretty sure I arn’t broke, Mas’ Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that’s werry bad, you know, arn’t it? Now then, which way is it?”
“This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain.”
“Ah, I suppose you’re right, Mas’ Don. I say, I can walk.”
“Does it hurt you very much?”
“Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas’ Don, there arn’t many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?”
“I think it’s wonderful, Jem.”
“That’s what I think, Mas’ Don, and I’m as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas’ Don, I don’t believe I’m even cracked.”
“I am glad, Jem,” cried Don. “I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me.”
“Did you, though, Mas’ Don? Well, that’s kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don’t you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?”