“What festering wound?” said the man, with a stare.
“The one in your shoulder, which you said was caused by a fall.”
Sturgess scowled.
“Lucky for you I was fetched to you in time, and then dressed the wound in your leg. Your flesh was in a bad way, my man. You should never neglect the bite of a dog.”
“Fear he should go mad?” said Sturgess grimly. “No fear o’ that one going mad now.”
“Shot him, I suppose.”
“Yes,” said Sturgess, smiling. “I shot him, Doctor. When may I get about again?”
“Oh, not for a week or two yet—perhaps three. You mustn’t hurry.”
“Can’t you get me up in a week, sir?” said the man anxiously. “I have got a good deal to do.”
“Not in the mine. That’s at an end.”