“So do I wonder!” replied John, competently swabbing the wound. “I can tell you his name, however: it’s Stogumber—and I should say he has come by his deserts!”
As though the sound of his own name had penetrated to his consciousness, Mr. Stogumber stirred, and opened his eyes.
“Keep still!” John said, as he winced.
Mr. Stogumber surveyed him vaguely. His dulled gaze then travelled to Chirk’s face. He blinked several times, as though in an effort to clear his sight; and then, the colour beginning to come back into his face, struggled to sit upright. “Thank ’ee!” he uttered.
“Take a candle, and go and fetch the basilicum powder from my room,” John said to Chirk. “You’ll see it amongst my shaving-tackle: it’ll do as well as anything else to put on the wound.”
“Stuck me in the back, did they?” remarked Stogumber, trying to squint over his own shoulder.
“Be still, will you?” said John. “It’s no more than a graze. A case of rogues falling out, eh, Mr. Stogumber?”
A faint, wan smile crossed Stogumber’s face. He sat leaning his elbows on his knees, his head propped in his hands. “I wouldn’t say it was that, not exactly. I’m mortified: that’s what I am—fair mortified! However, I’m obliged to you, Mr. Staple, mortal obliged to you!”
“You’d better keep your gratitude for the man who brought you here,” replied John, pulling some cloths out of a chest, and beginning to rip them up. “If it hadn’t been for him, you’d be dead.”
“I’m much beholden to him,” agreed Stogumber, speaking with a perceptible effort. “And a rare set-out that is! Loosed off his pop, didn’t he? I remember seeing him, a-sitting on his horse like a damned statue. “What I thought was that the cat was in the cream-pot proper, but I see I was mistook. I dunno what the world’s coming to! Me being beholden to a bridle-cull!”