My office door suddenly opened, and looking up from my writing, I saw, standing in the passage-way, a very tall man, in a long white frock, reaching to his knees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a slouched hat set back on his head, his face painted or bedaubed with some white substance, and his eyes gleaming upon me most intensely!
There he stood, looking almost fiercely upon me, while he held the door-knob with his left hand, and grasped with his right a long carving-knife, which was thrust through his belt.
“Are you the doctor?” he shouted with excitement.
“I am the doctor,” I replied, calmly awaiting my fate.
He instantly stepped inside the room, when close behind him was revealed the form of a very short man, who held a Kossuth hat in one hand, while with a handkerchief in the other, he stanched the blood that had evidently been flowing pretty freely from his head.
“This man has cut himself very bad on the head; big iron wheel come down on him: can you fix him up?” asked the first. This accounted for his excited manner. But how about the bedaubed face and the huge knife?
A MORNING CALLER.
I examined the wound, only through the scalp, less than three inches in length; and washing away the surplus clotted blood, I clipped off the hair, and soon secured the edges of the gaping wound by taking a stitch or two through the scalp.
While so doing, the young man rolled his eyes up to his tall companion,—who had explained that they were cooks at Young’s Hotel, and that the spit wheel and shaft used for turning meat had fallen eight feet; by which the assistant had barely escaped being killed,—and with a commendable show of thought for his employer’s interest, rather than his own comfort or safety, he anxiously exclaimed,—