Then stood still.
"What for air ye playing capers like that?" inquired Logan,
with an ail 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.
"Weel — I don't see it," replied Logan, slowly and
unbelievingly.
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