“I couldn’t very well help it. Did the bullet go through your hand?”
“It doesn’t shoot bullets. It shoots shot, and I guess it only grazed a few fingers. Most of the shot went into the wall,” and Bart gazed at a dark spot on the wall-paper, and then looked at his injured hand. “I didn’t think it would go off so easily,” he added.
“Oh, those horrid guns!” exclaimed the girl. “I just knew when papa let you send for it—”
“Say, Alice, if you ever intend to be a trained nurse you’d better get to work on me before I faint!" cried Bart. “Now don’t talk any more, that’s a good girl. Get a rag before I bleed to death.”
“Oh, Bart, I’m so sorry! Of course I’ll fix you up. Wait until I get my book,” and Alice, whose ambition was to be a nurse and wear a blue and white striped uniform, hurried to her room and came back with a little book. On the cover was a red cross, and the inscription, “First Aid to the Injured.”
“What kind of a wound is it, Bart?” Alice asked, rapidly turning the leaves of the volume.
“How should I know? It’s a painful wound, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, no! Is it incised or lacerated or a contused one? Because you see I have to give it different kind of treatment if it’s an incised wound than I would if it’s a lacerated one.”
“Oh, give me any kind of treatment!” and Bart began to dance around again. “The shot grazed my fingers, that’s all I know!”
“I guess that’s a lacerated wound,” Alice replied a little doubtfully, as she took a look at her brother’s bleeding hand. Then she turned to the page of the book that treated of lacerated hurts and read: