“I can move it,” he said. “I don’t know how it got under the thing, or what hit me in the face.”
“It doesn’t matter, either,” said Gordon quietly. “Can you get up?”
Nasmyth blinked at him. “Of course,” he answered. “As a general thing, I walk with my legs. They’re not hurt.”
Nasmyth staggered to his feet, and, while Gordon grasped his shoulder, floundered over the log staging laid athwart the fall and back to the shanty. Gordon was busy with him there for some time. After the crushed hand had been bound up Gordon flung the door open and spoke to the men outside.
“It’s only his hand, and there’s nothing broken,” he announced. “You can get your dinner. We’ll see about heaving the derrick up when you’ve eaten.”
He went back and filled Nasmyth’s pipe.
“I expect it hurts,” he said.
Nasmyth nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “quite enough.”
“Well,” said Gordon, “I don’t know that it’s any consolation, but if you expose it at this temperature, it’s going to hurt you considerably more. You can’t do anything worth while with one hand, and that the one you don’t generally use, either. There’s a rip upon your face that may give you trouble, too. I’m going to pack you out to-morrow.”