He took the stick from the dog, threw it down, and then quietly laid his hand upon his head; then placed the other on the side, and the dog whimpered softly.
“Hurt you, old fellow? well, I’ll be more gentle, but I must examine you. Poor lad, then. Why, you have been in the wars. You ought to be dead.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Gertrude.
“I only meant the blow was bad enough to have killed him. Do you know how serious it is?”
“I know it was a dreadful cut, but it is healing now.”
“Cut? The poor dog’s skull is fractured. A regular crack. Has he seemed stupid and dull?”
Gertrude could not answer for a few moments for the sob that choked her; and, as the impromptu surgeon looked up in her eyes he saw that they were brimming over.
“Oh, if they would only weep like that for me,” he thought; and directly after, “no, I should be very sorry.”
“I—I did not know he was so bad,” she faltered.
“But it is mending all right. Yes. Hold still, old fellow; I won’t hurt you much. That’s right. Oh, yes, he’s mending capitally; but it would be better if the hair were cut away a little from the wound. Knife? No. I suppose you could fetch me a pair of scissors?”