Old Brownsmith stopped to blow his nose on a brown-and-orange silk handkerchief, and stroke two or three cats, while I sawed away very slowly, waiting for what was to come.
“Then he went round by where one apple-tree, like that, had lost a bough, and whose stump he had carefully trimmed—just as you are going to trim that, Grant.”
“I know,” I cried, eagerly; “and then—”
“You attend to your apple-tree, sir, and let me tell my story,” he said, half gruffly, half in a good-humoured way, and I sawed away with my thin saw till I was quite through, and the stump I had cut off fell with such a bang that the cats all jumped in different directions, and then stared back at the stump with dilated eyes, till, seeing that there was no danger, one big Tom went and rubbed himself against it from end to end, and the others followed suit.
“All at once, as he stood staring at the broken tree, an idea flashed across his brain, Grant.”
“Yes,” I said, pruning-knife in hand.
“He knew that if he had not cut and trimmed off that branch the limb would have gone on decaying right away, and perhaps have killed the tree.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, still watching him.
“Isn’t your knife sharp enough, my lad?” said Old Brownsmith dryly.
“Yes, sir,” I said; and I went on trimming. “Well, he thought that if this saved the tree, why should it not save the life of the man?” and he grew so excited that he went in at once and had a look at the patient, and then went in to the prior, who shook his head.