“’Taint as if I’d got my staff out to him, you know,” he said in a whisper. “He’s a coward, that’s what he is, and I shall know him again, and if I do come acrost him—ah!”
Linny shrank away, with her eyes looking wild and strange, so that I thought she was frightened by his words, and I interposed and put my arm under the poor fellow’s head.
“Lie down, Bill,” I said. “Does your head hurt you?”
“I don’t mind about my head,” he muttered, “but such a coward; treat a little bit of a girl like that. Where’s my notebook? Here, it’s time I went. Where’s that boy?” he cried angrily; “I know what London is. I won’t have him stop out of a night.”
He sank back exhausted, and as I turned from him to speak to Linny, I saw that she was in tears.
“He frightens you,” I said; “but you needn’t be afraid.”
“Oh no! I’m not,” she cried; “it’s only because I’m low and nervous. I shall be better soon.”
The surgeon came twice that day, and said the case was serious, but that there was no cause for alarm.
“He gives no clue, I suppose, to who struck him, my boy?” he said.
“No, sir,” I replied; “he talks about some man, and says he would know him again.”