“I don’t say for certain as he has,” said Sim; “but he wanted me to, and I wouldn’t. Oh! oh! oh!”
“Stand still, man, and don’t be such a cur,” cried the vicar, sharply, for he had been applying the plaister to Sim’s slight cut, and the hero had begun to howl dismally.
“It’s half killing me,” cried Sim, again.
“Take hold of his head, Mrs Slee; the cut is nothing at all.”
Mrs Slee seized Sim pretty roughly, and held him by his ears, while the plaister was affixed, the great orator moaning and flinching and writhing till he was set at liberty.
“Is it bad, sir?” said Mrs Slee, then.
“So bad,” said the vicar, “that if a schoolboy of nine or ten received such a drubbing from a playmate, he would have washed his face and said nothing about it.”
“Said nowt about it!” cried Sim. “Aye, it’s easy for them as aint hurt to talk. Thou’lt come home wi’ me, lovey?”
“No. Go thee gate,” said Mrs Slee.
“Do ’ee come, lovey,” said Sim.