"Oscar!" interposed Alice, from her sofa. "Oscar is too cautious to get hurt."
"What should you say to its being me?" said Mr. Cleveland, sitting down, and stretching out one leg, as if it were stiff and he could not bend it.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Dalrymple, running forward with a footstool. "How did it happen? You ought not to have walked home."
"No," said he, "my leg is all right. It is Dalrymple's leg: he has hurt his a little."
"How did he do it? Is it the knee? Did he fall?" was reiterated around.
"It is nothing," interrupted Mr. Cleveland. "But we would not let him walk home. And I came on to tell you, lest you should be alarmed at seeing him brought in."
"Brought in!" echoed Mrs. Dalrymple. "How do you mean? Who is bringing him?"
"Hardy and Farmer Lee. Left to himself, he might have been for running here, leaping the ditches over the shortest cut; so we just made him lie down on a mattress, and they are carrying it. Miss Judith supplied us."
"Has he sprained his leg?"
"No," carelessly returned Mr. Cleveland. "He has managed to get a little shot into it; but——"