“I see!” exclaimed Mr Temple quietly; and as Arthur moaned piteously, afraid now more of his father’s anger than of the pain, Mr Temple held the injured leg against the side of the boat, pinching the shank of the hook with his fingers.
Will did not hesitate a moment, but placed the edge of the great jack-knife on the soft tinned-iron hook, gave the back of the blade a sharp tap with the iron bar, and cut clean through the shank.
Arthur winced as he watched the descent of the marlinspike, but he was held too tightly by his father for him to move away, had he wished; and this he did not attempt, for fear of greater pain.
What followed was almost like a conjuring trick, it was so quickly done. For, thrusting Mr Temple’s hands on one side, Will seized Arthur’s leg with his strong young hands, there was a squeak—at least Dick said afterwards that it was a squeak, though it sounded like a shrill “Oh!” and then Will stood up smiling.
“Don’t let him, papa—don’t let him!” cried Arthur. “I could not bear it. He hurt me then horribly! I will not have it out! I’ll bear the pain. He shall not do it! He sha’n’t touch—”
Arthur stopped, stared, and dragged up the leg of his flannel trousers to examine his leg, where there were two red spots, one of which had a tiny bead of blood oozing from it, but the hook was gone.
“Why—where—where’s the hook?” he cried in a querulous tone.
“Here it is!” said Will, holding it out, for with a quick turn he had forced it on, sending the barb right through where the point nearly touched the surface, and drawn it out—the shank, of course, easily following the barb now that the flattened part had gone.
“Hor! hor! hor! hor!” croaked Josh, indulging in a hoarse laugh. “I taught him how to do that, sir. It’ll only prick a bit now, and heal up in a day or two.”
“But—but is it all out?” said Arthur, feeling his leg.