“Oh dear me, no. I’m very much better,” said the Vicar. “I was very much frightened, and I have a lump on the back of my head, but that is all. You had better send for him, I think, to see Master Tom here.”
“I don’t want any doctor,” exclaimed Tom. “Mrs Fidler could put me right.”
“Yes, my dear,” cried the housekeeper; “but you never will let me.”
“Well, who’s going to take prune tea or brimstone and treacle because he has been knocked down?”
“There, Mrs Fidler, you hear,” said Uncle Richard; “we have had a narrow escape, but I don’t think any of us are much the worse. We only want rest. Take the couch, Maxted, and lie down.”
“Well—er—really,” said the Vicar; “if you will not think it selfish of me, I believe it would do my head good if I lay down for an hour. I am a good deal shaken.”
Mrs Fidler sighed and left the room as the Vicar took the couch, Uncle Richard one easy-chair, and Tom the other, to lie back and listen to the murmur of voices out in the lane, where the village people were still discussing the startling affair. Every now and then some excited personage raised his voice, and a word or two floated through the window about “lightning,” and “heared it,” and “mussy no one was killed.”
Uncle Richard was the first to break the silence by saying dryly—
“I’m afraid Mrs Fidler does not believe in the thunder and lightning theory.”
“No?” said the Vicar, turning his head.