“But you don’t think he’ll die, sir?”
“Die, my man? No. A great stout fellow like that is not likely to die from a crack or two on the head.”
I drew a long breath of relief, and soon after the doctor left, bidding me not be alarmed if I found his patient slightly delirious.
It was no pleasant task, sitting there alone, watching by my poor friend, and many times over I felt so alarmed at his condition that I rose to go and rouse up some of the people of the house; but whenever I reached the door the doctor’s reassuring words came back, and, feeling that he must know what was right, I sat by the bedside, holding Revitts’ hand till towards morning, when he began to move uneasily and to mutter and throw about his arms, ending by seeming to wake from a troubled sleep.
“Where am I?” he said sharply.
“Here at home, in bed,” I said.
“Who’s that?”
“It is I, Bill, don’t you know me?”
“Yes, yes, I know you!” he said. “Oh, my head, my head!”
“What was it? How was it done?” I said.