"Why didn't you tell me at first that you knew these people, sweetheart?" I asked. "It would have saved you some of the pain of standing." I tried to be reproachful.
Helen giggled happily. "I wanted to see if you could manage it, Ted. It was too delicious to watch you lose your temper on my account because you went at 'Henery' Tyler the wrong way. I'll never again send you as ambassador to one of our farmers. You even offered him money!" and she laughed. I, felt there was a defence to my actions, but could think of none.
"Now, Ted, do you think we ought to leave my knee alone until we see a doctor, or shall we try the arnica and Mrs. Tyler's poultice?"
"I don't know," I said. "I hate to experiment with a knee without expert advice, but I don't believe arnica will do any harm, and the poultice will be warming."
Helen promptly displayed her knee again, and I gingerly applied the arnica. Mrs. Tyler returned with a steaming poultice.
"Now, dearie, you must have it on just as hot as you can stand it," she said, making a great bustle of preparation.
"Feel it, Ted, and see if I can stand it. I don't want to be blistered," Helen whispered. I seized the poultice as Mrs. Tyler held it in mid-air ready to apply it violently. I gave an involuntary "Ouch!" it was so hot. Mrs. Tyler refused to yield without a struggle.
"It's what I always do for Henery's rheumatics—catches him in the back when he's splittin' wood for the kitchen stove. Once I give him a good hot poultice he never complains of his back again that season." Poor man, with such a dire penalty instantly exacted, who would commit a second offence? Under further protests I got the poultice sufficiently cool, and I bound it in place with quite a workmanlike-looking bandage. When all had been put to rights as well as it could be, "Henery" was admitted. He bore a tray of biscuits, a pitcher of milk, and pie. Both Helen and I recalled with a laugh that we hadn't thought of food since our campfire of the early afternoon.
"We can't eat in the parlour," said the tactful Helen, aware of how great an enormity this must seem to a farmer's wife.
"Now, dearie, don't you fret yourself. You ain't agoin' to stir, not if I can help it. I guess the parlour can put up with it for once, if a certain long-faced fool will wipe his feet before he comes trapesin' in." The latter part of this remark was directed at "Henery" who promptly retreated and was heard vigorously scraping in the passage.