"Why, Richmond, old fellow," remonstrated Charley, "you'll kill yourself—rupture an artery, and all that sort of thing, you know; and then there'll be a pretty to do about it. Let go, and I'll walk it, in spite of the ankle. I can hold out as long as it can, I should hope."
"Never mind, Charley; I'm pretty strong, and you're not a killing weight, being all skin and bone, and nonsense pretty much. Keep still, and I will have you up in a twinkling."
"Be it so, then, most obliging youth. Really, it's not such a bad notion, this being carried—rather comfortable than otherwise."
"Now, don't keep on so, Charley," said Georgia, in a voice of motherly rebuke. "How is your ankle? Does it hurt you much now?"
"Well, after mature deliberation on the subject, I think I may safely say it does. It's aching just at this present writing as if for a wager," replied Charley, with a grimace.
Georgia glanced at Richmond, and seeing great drops of perspiration standing on his brow as he toiled up, said, in all sincerity:
"See here, you look tired to death. Do let me help you. I'm strong, and he ain't very heavy looking, and I guess I can carry him the rest of the way."
Richmond turned and looked at her in surprise, but seeing she was perfectly serious in her offer, he repressed his amusement and gravely declined; while Charley, less delicate, set up an indecorous laugh.
"Carry me up the hill! Oh, that's good! What would Curtis, and Dorset, and all the fellows say if they heard that, Rich? 'Pon honor, that's the best joke of the season! A little girl I could lift with one hand offering to carry me up hill?"
And Master Charley lay back and laughed till the tears stood in his eyes.