To the heart-felt joy of the entire party, the surgeon declared that, by taking great care, Steve would not lose his thumb and fingers, though they might be stiff and mis-shaped for life.
As to Will’s knee, that was really a serious matter, and he would probably suffer more or less with it to his dying day. This was appalling to poor Will, who was so fond of physical exertion, but he bore it as bravely as he could.
As for the cuts made by the flying pieces, the surgeon regarded them with unutterable disdain. “A schoolboy,” he said, “would chuckle over such hurts, and make the most of them while they lasted; but he wouldn’t degrade himself by bellowing—unless his sister happened to dress them with vitriol. But if a piece had entered an eye, now, there would have been a tale to tell.”
And yet those hurts, slight as they were, had frightened Will so much that he had injured himself for life.
After all their wounds had been dressed, the Nimrods wended their way back to their humble cabin, still carrying Will, of course. As they went along they naturally conversed. Seeing that it is their last conversation, we deliberately inflict the whole of it on the hapless reader. However, the hapless reader cannot be forced to read it all.
“Let us have a little light on the subject, as the bloody-minded king said when he dropped a blazing lucifer on the head of a disorderly noble of his,” Steve observed, as they left the surgeon’s.
“What are you driving at now, Steve?” Charles inquired.
“The confession made by Monk, if Mr. Lawrence has no objections.”
“Certainly;” said uncle Dick. “Henry, you can give it better than I can; do so.”
“I wish, with all my heart, that I had taken it down,” said Henry, “for I consider it the best thing I ever heard. That man is a born romancer; but he wasted his talents keeping the records of his hospital, and afterwards dodging the ‘minions’ and his own conscience. However, I’ll give it as well as I can.”