Gwyn spoke, and the dog responded by tapping the cistern lid with his tail very softly, and then whined piteously, for the Colonel in placing the splintered bones as straight as he could was inflicting a great deal of pain.
“Can’t help it, Canis, my friend,” said the Colonel. “If you are to get better I want it to be with straight legs, and not to have you a miserable odd-legged cripple. There, I shall soon be done. That bandage is too dry, Gwyn; moisten it again. Wring it out. That’s right; now dip it in the plaster.”
“What’s that for, sir?” said Joe, who was looking on eagerly.
“What do you think?” replied the Colonel. “Now, Gwyn, right under, and hold it like a hammock while I lay the leg in. I’m obliged to hold it firmly to keep the bones in their places. Now, right over and tighten it. That’s it. Round again. Now go on. Round and round. Well done. Now I’ll finish. Well,” he continued, as he took the ends of the bandage and braced the dog’s leg firmly, “why do I use this nasty white plaster, Joe?”
“Because it will set hard and stiff round the broken leg.”
“Good boy,” said the Colonel, smiling, “take him up; Gwyn didn’t see that.”
“Yes I did, father; but I didn’t like to bother you and speak.”
“Then stop where you are, boy. Keep down, Joe; he behaved the better of the two. You are both right; the plaster and the linen will mould themselves as they dry to the shape of the dog’s legs, and if we can keep him from trying to walk and breaking the moulds, Nature may do the rest. At all events, we will try. When the linen is firm, I’ll bind splints of wood to them as well, so as to strengthen the plaster, though it is naturally very firm.”
“It will be a job to keep him quiet, father,” said Gwyn.
“I’m afraid so, my boy. Not, however, till the plaster sets; that cannot take very long, and we shall have to hold him down if it’s necessary; but I don’t think it will be. Poor fellow, he’ll very likely go to sleep.”