"How's old Whetstone?" he asked, his voice coming clearer.
"He's all right," she told him.
"His tail's burnt off of him, mostly, and he's cut in the hams in a couple of places, but he ain't hurt any, as I can see," Taterleg said, with more truth than diplomacy.
Lambert struggled to his elbow, the consciousness of what seemed his ingratitude to this dumb savior of his life smiting him with shame.
"I must go and attend to him," he said.
Vesta and Taterleg laid hands on him at once.
"You'll bust them stitches I took in your back if you don't keep still, young feller," Taterleg warned. "Whetstone ain't as bad off as you, nor half as bad."
Lambert noticed then that his hands were wrapped in wet towels.
"Burned?" he inquired, lifting his eyes to Vesta's face.
"No, just swollen and inflamed. They'll be all right in a little while."