“Ah, yes,” sighed the little man, kindly stroking my foot.
“Then I shall not live much longer?” said I, with a choking lump in my throat.
“You’ll live just twenty-four hours, unless you have your foot taken off,” he uttered.
The sincerity of his tone convinced me that I must be near the end of my life. I had always heard that the bite of a tarantula was fatal, so I advised Maitland to go for Martin Luther. He would have me sent to the hospital, and I would have my foot cut off. I wrote a few words of farewell to friends and sat, frightened and still, while the doctor bathed my foot with a concoction of stuff, the ingredients of which were vinegar, ether, pickle and linseed oil.
“That will take the venom out of it,” said the doctor, with another sigh, as he opened the bag and drew forth a number of old, rusty instruments. These he wiped carefully on his old blue overalls.
Now Maitland returned with Martin Luther, who grinned as he beheld the doctor at work on my foot.
“Well, I’ll be goldurned,” said he, throwing his hat upon the floor. “What in thunder are you doing, Moll? For the love of Mike, don’t go to poisoning her foot with that old rusty needle.”
“These instruments cost my father a small fortune.”
“Yes, a hundred years ago,” answered Martin Luther, with a disgusted look.
“Tie up her foot, Moll, and we’ll send her to the hospital,” said Martin Luther; “and you’d better be getting back on the job, or you’ll be fired.”