“Och, laddie, laddie, are ye no deid?” said Davie Scotch.
“What's the matter with you, Scottie?” asked Hughie, with a bewildered look about him. “And who's been throwing water all over me?” he added, wrathfully, as full consciousness returned.
“Man! I'm glad to see ye mad. Gang on wi' ye,” shouted Davie, joyously. “Ye were deid the noo. Ay, clean deid. Was he no, Fusie?” Fusie nodded.
“I guess not,” said Hughie. “It was that rotten balsam top,” looking vengefully at the broken tree.
“Lie doon, man,” said Davie, still anxiously hovering about him. “Dinna rise yet awhile.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Hughie, and he struggled to his feet; “I'm all right.” But as he spoke he sank down upon the moss, saying, “I feel kind of queer, though.”
“Lie still, then, will ye,” said Davie, angrily. “Ye're fair obstinate.”
“Get me some water, Fusie,” said Hughie, rather weakly.
“Run, Fusie, ye gomeril, ye!”
In a minute Fusie was back with a capful of water.