"Eh—oh—the tender mercies of the wicked! I am wet through—I shall catch my death."
"You had best go home to my cottage and send for dry clothes, or go to bed while these are dried, good father," said the shepherd, who had just arrived at the scene of action.
"Jack, run and tell Margery to have the bed ready and warmed, and then come back, and bring with you the bottle of strong waters your father brought me. It will revive his spirit, and keep him from taking cold. How is it with you now, Sir John? I trust you have no bones broken by your fall."
"Oh—ah—ugh!" spluttered the priest. "Alack!
I have broken my bones."
With many a sigh and many a dolorous groan, the unlucky father raised himself on his feet and ascertained, by stretching himself, that he had sustained no serious injury.
"How did you fall?" asked the shepherd.
"Ah—eh! It was the clod of earth that unlucky lad threw at me."
"Were you behind the bush, then, father?" asked Jack, who had returned with the bottle and a cup, into which he was pouring a goodly portion of strong waters, alias brandy. "I humbly crave your pardon, but I took you for an owl."
"An owl, indeed! An owl in the desert, a sparrow on the housetop," said the priest, quoting at random. "Do I look like an owl?"