“My dear sir, indeed I am very sorry,” said the dealer.
“Yes, I know you are,” said Mr Burne furiously, “because you think, and rightly, that I will not buy your precious gun. Bless my heart, how it does hurt! I feel as if I should never be able to sit up again. I know my vertebrae are all loose like a string of beads.”
“Will you allow us to assist you into my private room, sir?” said the dealer.
“No, I won’t,” snapped the sufferer.
“But there is a couch there, and I will send for the resident English doctor.”
“If you dare do anything of the kind, confound you, sir, I’ll throw something at you. Can’t you see that there is nothing the matter with me, only I’m in pain.”
“But he might relieve you, Burne,” said the professor kindly.
“I tell you I don’t want to be relieved, sir,” cried the little lawyer. “And don’t stand staring at me like that, boy; I’m not killed.”
“I am afraid that you are a great deal hurt,” said Lawrence, going to his side and taking his hand.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” groaned the sufferer. “Well, I’m not, boy, not a bit. There.”