"A crack o' the head, mother—a crack o' the head," said he.
"Was it the horse, my dear?"
"A crack o' the head, mother."
"What have they done to my boy Robert?"
"They've,"—he swung about humorously, weak as he was and throbbing with pain—"they've let out some of your brandy, mother…got into my head."
"Who've done it, my dear?"
"They've done it, mother."
"Oh, take care o' that nail at your foot; and oh, that beam to your poor poll—poor soul! he's been and hurt himself again. And did they do it to him? and what was it for?" she resumed in soft cajolery.
"They did it, because—"
"Yes, my dear; the reason for it?"