“To dress your wound.”
“Ay, but you’re a-doing of something with that ’ere other hand.”
“No, my man, no.”
“Arn’t got a knife in’t then?”
“Certainly not. Why?”
“Dumlow thinks you were going to cut his leg off, sir,” I said, feeling amused in spite of our terrible position.
“Course I did,” growled the man. “I’ve been telled as there’s nothing a doctor likes better than to have a chance o’ chopping off a man’s legs or wings, and I don’t mean to go hoppin’ about on one leg and a timber toe, and so I tells yer flat.”
“I’m not going to cut your leg off, Dumlow.”
“Honour, sir?”
“Honour, my man.”