“‘These wounds have ragged edges and the skin is torn and bruised.’”
“That’s me all right,” interrupted Bart.
“‘They result from force so applied as to tear rather than cut the tissues cleanly,’” the girl read on.
“Oh, I’m cut all right,” put in Bart. “Hurry up Alice, stick some court plaster on and let it go at that.”
“Why, Bart Keene! I’m ashamed of you! The idea of me putting such a common remedy as court plaster on a wound! Why, you’d get bloodpoison and other dreadful things! I must treat this just as I expect to treat other wounds when I get to be a trained nurse.”
“You’ll never get to be one at this rate,” Bart cut in.
“‘They are caused by railway and machinery accidents,’” Alice read on, “‘by falling timbers, stones and brick. Such wounds are frequently followed by shock.’”
“Well, this wasn’t a railroad accident, nor one caused by falling bricks or timber,” Bart retorted. “I guess it will come under the head of machinery. A gun’s machinery, I s’pose. But I can testify to the shock. Wow!” and, as a sudden spasm of pain seized him, he snatched his hand from the grasp of his sister and again began dancing around on one leg.
“Hold still! How can I treat the wound if you jerk around that way?” demanded Alice.
“Treat the wound! You aren’t treating any wound!” retorted Bart. “I could treat ten wounds in that time! All you’re doing is talk! If Fenn Masterson or Ned Wilding was here they’d have a rag around this long ago.”