“Internal injury?” suggested Miss Winter. “I'm very sorry to hear it.”
“Zummut inside o' me like, as wur got out o' place,” explained Simon; “and I thenks a must be near about the mark, for I feels mortal bad here when I tries to move;” and he put his hand on his side. “Hows'm'ever, as there's no bwones bruk, I hopes to be about to-morrow mornin', please the Lord—ugh, ugh.”
“You mustn't think of it, Simon,” said Miss Winter. “You must be quite quiet for a week, at least, till you get rid of this pain.”
“So I tells un, Miss Winter,” put in the wife. “You hear what the young missus says, Simon?”
“And wut's to happen to Tiny?” said the contumacious Simon, scornfully. “Her'll cast her calf, and me not by. Her's calving maybe this minut. Tiny's time were up, miss, two days back, and her's never no gurt while arter her time.”
“She will do very well, I dare say,” said Miss Winter, “One of the men can look after her.”
The notion of anyone else attending Tiny in her interesting situation seemed to excite Simon beyond bearing, for he raised himself on one elbow, and was about to make a demonstration with his other hand, when the pain seized him again, and he sank back groaning.
“There, you see, Simon, you can't move without pain. You must be quiet till you have seen the doctor again.”
“There's the red spider out along the south wall—ugh, ugh,” persisted Simon, without seeming to hear her; “and your new g'raniums a'most covered wi' blight. I wur a tacklin' one of 'em just afore you cum in.”
Following the direction indicated by his nod, the girls became aware of a plant by his bedside, which he had been fumigating, for his pipe was leaning against the flower-pot in which it stood.