"That's right! It's Pippin, all right. How you feelin', Nipper?"
"What's the matter?"
"Search me!" said Pippin cheerfully. "You appear to have had a fit, or something. You'll come out all right."
"Where is it?"
"Where's what? Your wheel? Right handy by; I expect it dropped when you did, but it looks to be all O.K. Took up grindin', eh? Good trade, is it?"
A cunning look crept into the dim eyes.
"Good enough. Gets you into the house, and then—" his breath failed; he lay back, gasping, in Pippin's arms.
"Now wouldn't that give you a pain?" muttered Pippin. "Nipper," he said aloud, "you're feelin' bad, ain't you? Now here we be on a good road leadin' to a town only a mile off. There's three things to do: I can carry you a little ways at a time till we get to a house; or we can set right here and wait till somebody comes along; or I can lay you so you'll rest easy—as easy as you can—and go and fetch somebody. Now—"
"Don't go!" It was only a whisper, but the groping fingers caught Pippin's sleeve and held it convulsively.
"Go! Not likely, if you feel that way!" Pippin sat down cheerfully. "It's nice to sit down, anyway. Say we put your head on my knee—so! That's easier? Good enough! Why, we've been—not to say pals, Nipper, but we sat side by each for a matter of a year. It's not likely I'd leave you, is it?"