"Yes—yes—" drawled the Clown. "Goll! seems 'ough he knowed jest whar to take hold."
"There," said Sperry, as he gave a final adjustment to the improvised bandage. "You had better get him to bed."
"By gar, Doc'," grunted the little man between his teeth, "what you goin' to do now, hein! I feel lot bettaire I tink eff I tak a drink." He had not even asked for a drop of water before, nor had he spoken a word.
"He may have it," said Sperry, in the voice he used at consultations.
The Clown poured a tin cup full of whiskey and the little man drained it to the last drop.
"He'll suffer," said Sperry, turning to the trapper, "when the arm begins to swell under the bandage."
"Broke bad, Doc'?" asked the trapper.
"Yes, a compound fracture; but he'll be all right, my man, in a few weeks." Sperry opened a thin leather case, which he took from his bag, extracted a phial, and shook two whitish gray pills into the trapper's palm. "Give him one in an hour, and another to-night if he can't sleep," he said. He went over to the patient, felt his pulse, then with a nod to the rest, he started toward the door.
"Hold on, Doc'!" came from half a dozen in the group of lumber jacks; "won't ye take a leetle somethin' 'fore ye go?"
Sperry shook his head and smiled. "No, thank you," he said, half amused. "I seldom take anything before luncheon."