"I will not," was the reply. "I'm man enough to go through on my mettle."
"'Oh! confound your mettle," I thought, for I wanted an excuse to take some myself, but could not for shame under the circumstances.
"Are you ready?"
He laid his pudding-y hand on the table.
"You better have your Indian friend hold that hand."
"I'll never budge," he replied, with set teeth, and motioned the Indian away. And I knew he would not flinch. He will never know (till he reads this, perhaps) what an effort it cost me. I knew only I must cut deep enough to reach the pus, not so deep as to touch the artery, and not across the tendons, and must do it firmly, at one clean stroke. I did.
It was a horrid success. He never quivered, but said: "Is that all? That's a pin-prick to what I've been through every minute for the last week."
I felt faint, went out behind the cabin, and—shall I confess it?—took a long swig of brandy. But I was as good as my promise: in three days he was well enough to travel, and soon as strong as ever.
I wonder if real doctors ever conceal, under an air of professional calm, just such doubts and fears as worried me.