In an instant Phil had rolled him over on his back on the hall rug, and
I slipped my arm under his head. Fee looked _dreadfully_,--white as
death, with big black shadows under his eyes; and such a sad, pitiful
expression about his mouth that I burst out crying.
"Oh, hush, hush!" Phil cried eagerly; "he's coming to himself. Oh, thank
God! Stop your crying, Jack,--you'll frighten him."
But he was mistaken; Fee wasn't coming to,--he lay there white and
perfectly still. Oh, how we worked over him! We took off his necktie and
collar, we poured water on his forehead, and fanned him, and rubbed his
hands and feet with hands that were as cold as his own, and trembling.
And Phil kept saying, "Oh, Jack, he'll soon be better,--don't you think
so? _don't_ you, Jack? Oh, surely, such a _little_ fall couldn't be
serious! he _couldn't_ have struck himself on that chair,--see, it's
entirely out of his way," with such a piteous pleading in his eyes and
voice that I hadn't the heart to contradict him.
Nothing that we did had any effect; Fee still lay unconscious, and there
was a pinched look about his features, a limp heaviness about his body,
that struck terror to our hearts.
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