“The worst I ever see, and I’ve had the good luck to see many,” said the guard.
“No, he can’t get over that,” said Ned himself.
To our astonishment, however, the human mass still breathed. After a long sigh it opened one eye—the right—then the other—the mouth gasped—the tongue moved—and at last even spoke, though in disjointed syllables.
“We’re nigh—hand—an’t we—the nine—milestun?”
“Yes—yes—close to it,” answered a dozen voices, and one in its bewilderment asked, “Do you live there?” but was set right by the sufferer himself.
“No—a mile fudder.”
“Where is there a surgeon?” asked the humane man, “I will ride off for him on one of the leaders.”
“Better not,” said the phlegmatic smoker, who had lighted a fresh cigar with some German tinder and a lucifer—“not used to saddle—may want a surgeon yourself.”
“Is there never a doctor among the company?” inquired the guard.