The break in her voice brought him on his knees at her side. “Why, I reckon it must hurt like the devil, ma’am.” He looked around helplessly.
“Haven’t you got something that you might take it off with?” she demanded tearfully. “Haven’t you got a knife?”
He reddened guiltily. “I clean forgot it ma’am.” He laughed with embarrassment. “I expect I’d never do for a doctor, ma’am; I’m so excited an’ forgetful. An’ I recollect, now that you mention it, that we had to cut Hiller’s boot off. That was the man I was tellin’ you about. He—”
“Oh, dear,” she said with heavy resignation, “I suppose you simply must talk! Do you like to see me suffer?”
“Why, shucks, I feel awful sorry for you, ma’am. I’ll sure hurry.”
While he had been speaking he had drawn out his knife, and with as much delicacy as the circumstances would permit, he accomplished the destruction of the boot. Then, after many admonitions for him to be careful, and numerous sharp intakings of her breath, the boot was withdrawn, showing her stockinged foot, puffed to abnormal proportions. She looked at it askance.
“Do you think it is b-broken?” she asked him, dreading.
He grasped it tenderly, discovered that the ankle moved freely, and after pressing it in several places, looked up at her.
“I don’t think it’s broke, ma’am. It’s a bad sprain though, I reckon. I reckon it ought to be rubbed—so’s to bring back the blood that couldn’t get in while the boot was on.”
The foot was rubbed, he having drawn off the stocking with as much delicacy as he had exhibited in taking off the boot. And then while Randerson considerately withdrew under pretense of looking at Patches, the stocking was put on again. When he came back it was to be met with a request: