“Whatcher mean, sir, with yer bit o’ practice?—pouring of physic into me as if I was a cask?”
“No; I meant taking off your leg.”
“Taking off my leg!” cried Dumlow, with so comical a look of disgust on his countenance that I was obliged to laugh; “whatcher want to take off my leg for? Can’t you stop the holes up?”
“I don’t want to take off your leg, my man, and I can stop up the holes as you call it; but you persist in using it, and if you do, the consequences will possibly be that the wounds will mortify, and the leg get into such a state that I shall have to amputate it to save your life.”
“Hear this, Mr Dale!” growled Dumlow.
I nodded.
“That won’t do for me. Timber-toes goes with the Ryle Navy and pensions. They won’t do in the marchant sarvice. All right, doctor; I’m game to do just as you tell me, only let me get about a bit. Couldn’t you put my leg in a sling?”
“Your leg isn’t your arm, Neb,” I cried, laughing.
“Well, sir, who said it were? I knows the diffrens ’tween a fore and a hind flipper.”
“There, that will do, my man,” said the doctor. “Your wound is not a bad one, but in this hot climate it would soon be if neglected.”