“Ah, Phonny,” said he, when he came into the room, and saw Phonny lying upon the sofa, “and what is the matter with you?”
“I have cut my foot,” said Phonny.
“Cut your foot!” rejoined the doctor, “could not you find any thing else to cut than your foot?”
Phonny laughed.
“I hope you have cut it in the right place,” continued the doctor. “In cutting your foot every thing depends upon cutting it in the right place.”
While the doctor was saying this, Mrs. Henry had drawn off Phonny’s stocking, and was beginning to unpin the bandage.
“Stop a moment, madam,” said the doctor. “That bandage is put on very nicely; it seems hardly worth while to disturb it. You can show me now precisely where the wound was.”
Mrs. Henry then pointed to the place upon the bandage, underneath which the cut lay, and she showed also the direction and length of the cut.
“Exactly,” said the doctor. “You could not have cut your ankle, Phonny, in a better place. A half an inch more, one side or the other, might have made you a cripple for life. You hit the right place exactly. It is a great thing for a boy who has a hatchet for a plaything, to know how to cut himself in the right place.”