"Take your knife," said Willis, "and cut the hole bigger."
The wound was bleeding afresh, but I did not tell him so.
"No," said I; "your leg is too valuable for me to risk anything of that kind."
"You refuse?"
"I positively refuse," said I.
We had eaten enough. The sun was almost down. Far away a low rumbling was heard, a noise like the rolling of cars or of a wagon train.
Willis reluctantly consented to start. I went to the brook and kneaded some clay into the consistency of plaster; I took off my shirt, and tore it into strips. Against the naked limb, stiffened out, I applied a handful of wet clay and smoothed it over; then I wrapped the cloths around the knee, at every fold smearing the bandage with clay. I hardly knew why I did this, unless with the purpose of keeping the knee-joint from bending; when the clay should become dry and hard the joint would be incased in a stiff setting which I hoped would serve for splints. Willis approved the treatment, saying that clay was good for sprains, and might be good for wounds.
I helped the sergeant to his feet. He could stand, but could hardly move.
"Take my gun," said I, "and use it as a crutch."
He did as I said, but the barrel of the gun sank into the soft earth; after two strides he said, "Here! I can get along better without it." Meanwhile I had been sustaining part of his weight.