“What for, father?”
“To give nature time to get your bruises right.”
“But you won’t tell me how my pony is—and he’s worse than I am. Don’t say he’s tired, father?” cried the boy piteously, for the doctor’s face looked very serious.
“Certainly not. Poor beast, he’s far more stiff and sore than you are, besides having all those bad wounds.”
“But they’re getting better?” cried Chris anxiously.
“They’re no worse, my boy,” replied the doctor, “but they have had no time to get better. I have stopped them from getting into a bad condition, and the poor thing is limping about grazing as if nothing much was the matter. Are you satisfied?”
“Oh yes,” cried Chris eagerly, as he rose and began to try himself in different attitudes. “It has done me good to hear it. I—I don’t think I’m quite so stiff this morning.”
“That’s right.”
“Are we going on to-day?”
“On? No. We’re prisoners; and besides, we couldn’t start with you and your pony in hospital.”