“Well, what’s the matter?” inquired that individual cheerfully, “have you lost that voice of yours?”
“No, b-b-b-but I thought you were badly wounded!” Hiram managed to sputter.
“No, b-b-b-but I thought you were badly wounded!” Hiram managed to sputter.
“So I was, but in reverse English only,” said Tubby cheerfully; “the bullet just nicked me and knocked the breath out of me for a minute. When I came to, I saw that the best thing I could do was to act like Br’er Rabbit and lay low.”
Hiram looked his admiration.
“Wa-al,” he drawled, dropping, as he seldom did even in emotional moments, into his New England dialect, “ef you ain’t ther beatingist!
“But, say,” he added quickly, “what about that red stain on your shirt? Look, it’s all over the front of your uniform.”
“Jiggeree, so it is. I guess that fountain pen of mine must have been busted cold by that bullet. I had it filled with red ink, because I’d been helping Rob fill out some reports to mail to Scout headquarters. Ho! ho!” the fat boy broke into open mirth, “it certainly does look as if some one had tapped my claret. Yo-ho! that was a corker!”
The sloop lurched and dipped deeper than ever. They could see the green water obscure the port hole for an instant.