“Yes,” said Mr Temple quietly. “Three grains of courage and determination and it will be out. There, hold still, and I won’t hurt you much. Catch hold of your brother’s hands.”
“A mussy me!” grumbled Josh as he looked on, scrubbing and scratching at his head with his great fingers all the time.
“Why, you are always talking about going in the army, Arthur,” said Mr Temple, hesitating about extracting the hook, which was buried in the boy’s leg, for he felt that he would have to make a deep cut to get it out—it being impossible to draw it back on account of the barb. “How would it be with you if the surgeon had to take off an arm or leg?”
“I don’t want to be a soldier if it’s to hurt like this,” moaned Arthur piteously. “Oh, how unlucky I am!”
Mr Temple hesitated for a moment or two longer, thinking of going back and letting a doctor extract the hook; but the next moment his countenance assumed a determined look, and he said firmly:
“I will not hurt you more than I can help, my boy; but I must get out that hook.”
“No, no, no!” cried Arthur. “We’ll put on a poultice when we get back.”
“Poultice won’t suck that out,” growled Josh. “We often gets hooks in ourselves, sir. Let me do it. I’ll have it out in a minute.”
“How?” said Mr Temple as he saw Josh pull out his great jack-knife, at the sight of which Arthur shrieked.
“Oh! I’ll show you, sir,” said Josh, “if he’ll give over shouting.”