“How’s my pony, father?”
“What was the matter?” said the doctor anxiously. “A pain anywhere inside?”
“No, father, only I seem to hurt all over, I’m so sore. But how’s my pony?”
“Let the pony wait, boy. I want to be certain that you have no serious hurt. Wait a minute. Let me try.”
The doctor began his examination, and question after question came. “Does that hurt?—Does this?—Now then, do you feel anything when I press here—or there—or there?”
“Yes—yes—yes!” cried the boy petulantly, as he winced and started and cried “Oh!” and “Ah!” and “I say, father!” and “Oh, please don’t!”
“I must make sure, my boy.”
“But I’m sure, father; won’t that do?” cried the boy, in a tone of remonstrance. “Of course all that hurts me; you pulled and pinched me about so. I was as sore as sore all over before you began, and now I’m ever so much worse.”
“No, you’re not, boy. You’re all right. There’s nothing broken. You’re bruised and strained, but that’s all. You’ll soon come right. Sleep well?”
“Part of the time, father. The rest was all waste, and I lay there feeling as if I ought to be keeping the watch, and thinking that some one else ought to be sleeping who could.”