“Is he hurt much?”
“I don’t know—no, don’t you say he’s hurt much—he couldn’t be, in such a second! Jim—dear—speak, old chap!” A big sob rose in her throat, and choked her at the heavy silence. Harry took Jim’s wrist in his hand, and felt with fumbling fingers for the pulse. Wally, having pulled his pony up with difficulty, came tearing back to the little group.
“Is he killed?” he whispered, awestruck.
A little shiver ran through Jim’s body. Slowly he opened his eyes, and stretched himself.
“What’s up?” he said weakly. “Oh, I know.... Mick?”
“He’s all right, darling,” Norah said, with a quivering voice. “Are you hurt much?”
“Bit of a bump on my head,” Jim said, struggling to a sitting position. He rubbed his forehead. “What’s up, Norah?” For the brown head had gone down on his knee and the shoulders were shaking.
Jim patted her head very gently.
“You dear old duffer,” he said tenderly.