But he could not answer. He was panting frightfully, as though every gasp would be his last. What on earth was I to do? Down I knelt, saying never another word.
“It—gives—me—much—hurt,” said he, at length, with a long pause between every word.
“What does?”
“Here”—pointing to his chest—towards the left side.
“Did you hurt yourself? Did you fall?”
“No, I not hurt myself. I fell because I not able to run more. It is the breath. I wish papa was near me!”
Instinct told me that he must have assistance, and yet I did not like to leave him. But what if delay in getting it should be dangerous? I rose up to go.
“You—you are not going to quit me!” he cried out, putting his feeble grasp on my arm.
“But, Charley, I want to get somebody to you,” I said in an agony, “I can’t do anything for you myself: anything in the world.”
“No, you stay. I should not like to be alone if I die.”