‘She’s all right,’ said the doctor.
‘Stop her!’ cried Job, struggling to rise—‘stop her!—oh God! my leg.’
‘Keep quiet, you fool!’
‘Stop her!’ yelled Job.
‘Why stop her?’ asked the doctor. ‘She won’t go fur,’ he added.
‘She’ll go home to Gerty,’ shouted Job. ‘For God’s sake stop her!’
‘O—h!’ drawled the doctor to himself. ‘I might have guessed that. And I ought to know men.’
‘Don’t take me home!’ demanded Job in a semi-sensible interval. ‘Take me to Poisonous Jimmy’s and tell Gerty I’m on the spree.’
When Mac. and Mrs Spencer arrived with the waggonette Doc. Wild was in his shirt-sleeves, his Chinese silk coat having gone for bandages. The lower half of Job’s trouser-leg and his ‘lastic-side boot lay on the ground, neatly cut off, and his bandaged leg was sandwiched between two strips of bark, with grass stuffed in the hollows, and bound by saddle-straps.
‘That’s all I kin do for him for the present.’