I reckon that joke was too much for me, in my condition. It takes a strong man to stand the wear of things like that. Anyhow, my next appearance in active life found me all bandaged up neat as a Sailors' Home, and a very nice-looking gentleman holding my wrist with one hand, with a glass of truck to throw into me in the other, and Jim was swearing a prayer to the doctor not to let me go.
"Oh, I wasn't thinking of going anywhere," says I, to relieve his mind. "What are you laughing at? I wasn't."
"That's right, Bill," says Jim, taking my hand. "Just stay right here."
The doctor fed me something that I felt clear down to my toes, still keeping his hand on the wrist.
"Good!" says he. "The effect of shock is over—it's only the lost blood now—he must have lost a gallon, from his appearance."
"Durn careless of me," says I, still hazy. "But what in thunder am I doing here? What's all this about?"
"Lie down, Bill," says Jim. "You have three knife-cuts and four bullet-holes in you."
"I have?" says I, rousing up. "Well, then, why didn't I holler for water?"
"You did," says Jim.
"There, there!" says the doctor. "No more talk! Lie still, young man, and sleep, if you can."