“Heaven forbid!” cried my father.
“Amen,” said the doctor. “Here, Bob, bandages, scissors. Fine lesson in surgery for you. Now, captain, you first.”
“No, no—the men,” said my father.
“Here, I’ve no time to waste,” cried the doctor. “Now, then, who’s worst?”
“Mas’r Sep,” cried the foreman loudly; and there was a sort of chorus of “Ay, ay!”
I tried to protest, but I felt sick, and as if I should faint, and the doctor cried:
“Hold your tongue, sir. Now then, what is it—bullet or sword cut?”
“Oh!” I shrieked, for he had seized me rather roughly.
“There, eh?” said the doctor, “that’s it, is it? Here, knife, Bob.”
“What is it?” said my father excitedly; “an operation?”