"What for air ye playing capers like that?" inquired Logan, with an air of great disgust and a strong Scotch accent. Sam stood still, drawing his countenance into all manner of grimaces.
"Speak then, can't ye! What ails ye? Don't stand there like a Merry
Andrew, boy!"
"I've hurted myself!" Sam groaned.
"And how did ye hurt yourself? When ye were walking along, couldn't ye go for'rard quietly? Where's the hurt?"
"My foot!" said Sam bending down to it. "I can't stir it. Oh!"
"Did ye hurt yourself before or after ye gave such a loup?" Logan grunted, going over however now to bring his own wisdom to bear on Sam's causes of trouble. "Whatever possessed ye boy, with the end of the chair in your hand?"
"I see a sarpent—" said Sam submissively.
"A sarpent!" echoed Logan—"it's not your pairt to be frighted if you see a sarpent. What hurt would the sight of the brute do ye? There's no harm come to ye, boy, but the start."
"I can't move it—" repeated Sam under his breath.
"Logan, perhaps he has sprained his ankle," said Daisy from her chair; where at first she had been pretty well frightened.