Chapter Sixteen.
My Patient the Carpenter.
“Bring him in,” I said; and four stout fellows carried the insensible figure of a well built young man into the surgery and laid him on the couch.
“How was this?” I exclaimed. “There, shut the door, we don’t want a crowd in here.”
“It was Harry Linney got teasing him, sir, and betting him he couldn’t climb up the outside of the church tower.”
“And he climbed up and fell, eh?” I said, going on with my examination.
“Yes; that’s it,” said one of the men, staring.
“How stupid!” I exclaimed. “Men like you to be always like a pack of boys.”
“Is he killed, doctor?” said another in awestruck tones.
“Killed? no;” I replied, “but he has broken his left arm, and yes—no—yes—his collar-bone as well.”