“I’m tired,” murmured Dick. “I’m cold.”
“Get up. I’ll help you over the stile.”
He did as he was bid at once. We had got well on down the lane, and I had my hand on his shoulder to steady him, for his legs seemed to slip about like Punch’s in the show, when he turned suddenly back again.
“The harness.”
“The what?” I said.
Something seemed the matter with the boy: it was just as if he had partly lost the power of speech, or had been struck stupid. I made out at last that he had left some harness on the ground, which he was ordered to take to the blacksmith’s.
“I’ll get over for it, Dick. You stop where you are.”
It was lying where he had been sitting; a short strap with a broken buckle. Dick took it and we went on again.
“Were you asleep, just now, Dick?”