Du Ponté was about to order the fish returned to the ice-house, when he espied emerging from the doorway of the stairs leading to the sleeping apartments in the annex the tall, graceful figure of Harry Weiner Sneitzel. “Here is a rare chance,” thought Du Ponté to himself. “Why, boys,” in an undertone, aside, “the fun is only beginning; now, Ribbon, it’s your turn. Give it to him good.”
Harry Weiner Sneitzel was a general favorite at the “Point.” He was endowed with a liberal share of good looks, a fine form, with graceful movements, and possessed of a rare interpretation of what a courteous manner should be. His bearing, too, was further dignified by a three years’ course at a medical college. When Harry stepped out upon the gravel walk in front of the hotel that Sunday morning, his white canvas shoes shining with a fresh coat of pipe clay, and his tall, erect figure swaying to his easy strides, he truly looked “a winner.”
“‘Well, it’s pretty bad,’ said Du Ponté, ‘but Ribbon needs you the worst of any of us.’”
As he turned toward the group surrounding the suspended fish and saw his friends in such evident distress, he hastened his steps in their direction. An expression of deep sympathy and concern had o’erspread his classic features, and he elbowed himself quickly to the side of his companions. “By Jove, old man, it’s pretty tough! Where have you been?” Ribbon was speaking in an accusing tone, holding his bandaged arm tenderly to his breast. Harry quickly looked from Du Ponté to the “cottager” for an explanation. “Well, it’s pretty bad,” said Du Ponté, “but Ribbon needs you the worst of any of us; his hand is in a bad shape.”
“Oh, you don’t tell me!” replied Harry, sorrowfully. “Can I do anything for you?” he eagerly inquired.
“By Jove, old chap,” went on Ribbon, with apparent difficulty, “I thought you had gone away last night on the ‘liner,’ or I would have been after you sooner. I’m all done up. My hand is in a bad way. This confounded fish has chewed me up. The fellows here tied this bandage all about, but it hurts like the deuce, and I’m afraid of blood poisoning.” “Better do something for him,” muttered Du Ponté. Harry was deeply impressed with the responsibility that was being heaped upon him. He placed the palms of his hands over his hips and drew up his shoulders till they rested akimbo, and then he was completely confused by the suddenness of the call upon his professional skill. “Quick, Harry,” snapped the “cottager,” “that hand needs to be dressed immediately, then afterward you can take a look at the cut in my leg.” “Say, old chap,” complained Ribbon, “mother will be down here in a minute; then there will be a deuced row if she sees this.” And he gingerly handled the bandaged arm for effect. “But I have no—no medicines,” stammered Harry, just recovering his composure. “Medicine!” shouted Du Ponté. “Don’t need medicines; get some cotton batting, get lint, get any old thing—but hustle; there’ll be trouble here soon!” “That’s right, Harry,” spoke the “cottager” assuringly. “Find the cotton batting; then we’ll get to work.” “Cotton batting will be good for that—first rate for a wound,” replied Harry, suddenly awakening. “Why, we had some yesterday over at your cottage, fixing up your rig for the masquerade. It’s in the extension; I know where to get it,” and he bolted through the crowd over the side hill and down through “Ghost Hollow,” up again on the opposite rise of ground, and fled through the white birch grove, disappearing into the grounds of the castle across the bay. Before the arch conspirators could hold a conference as to their further conduct of the “fish case,” which was now assuming an alarming aspect, Harry was flying back through “Spirit Lane,” his arms flapping up and down, his long legs dangling, in his haste resembling the flight of a water crane startled from a reed bank.
“Spread it out here,” suggested Du Ponté, and he guided Harry to the edge of the veranda, where he unfolded the roll of cotton. The “cottager” had limped to the veranda and seated himself. Ribbon followed him reluctantly. “Go lightly now, old chap; I am afraid it’s pretty bad,” said Ribbon. “Better dampen that cotton in witch hazel or Pond’s extract,” suggested the “cottager,” “for, if it’s blood poison you need an antiseptic.” “Excuse me, old chap, won’t you,” interrupted Ribbon; “this is quite serious, I fear. Would you mind getting that bottle of Pond’s extract up on your dresser? It would be safer for you to use it, don’t you know.” “Oh, of course, I never thought of that.” And Harry was off again, up the stairway this time, four steps at a bound, out again on the gravel walk, the bottle of extract clinched in his excited grasp. As Harry hurried to the side of his suffering patient to proceed with the bandaging, Mr. Mac had quietly reached the front. “If you will allow me to offer a suggestion,” he began, in his cautious, convincing way, “my family physician will arrive here in half an hour from the city; he will have all the necessaries, which I believe you require for this job, and it might be safer all around to postpone this operation till he comes.” “Quite right, quite right,” Du Ponté replied at once. “Mind you,” continued Mac, “I only wish to suggest; I am not interfering with your case, Harry.” “Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Mac,” said Harry; “the doctor probably has antiseptics, and that will be very necessary in this case.” “You had better go in to your breakfast, Harry,” suggested Ribbon; “I can stand this for half an hour, and the other doctor will need you when he comes.” Harry, still under the mesmeric spell, obeying orders, hurried into the hotel for breakfast.
The principals fell back, again surrounding the maskinonge, which was now stiffening in the sun. They were considering the plan of their escape from the Island in whispered consultation. In the meantime Harry Weiner Sneitzel had swallowed his first cup of coffee, and began to think. At the second thought he looked out of the window toward the suspended fish, then he sank back in his chair; an expression of fear and incredulity was forming upon his countenance.