“And then we must draw fresh blood to the spot. Let me see....”
“I should think you’d have seen enough by this time.”
“Fresh blood....” he murmured. His mind was busy choosing and rejecting from a hundred different things; nothing seemed to satisfy him quite. A smile of irony at his own idea curved his lips; it was not such a simple matter, after all, to get to work with Egholm’s United Soap Factories and Surgeries, specialising in leg troubles.
Suddenly his face brightened all over.
“Those jelly-fish—what did you do with the dish?”
“But, Egholm? what do you want them for now?”
“You leave that to me. We want something to tickle up the nerves, and draw the blood to the spot.”
He picked up the “stinger”—in his coat-tails—and held it out. It was domed like a dish-cover, and ornamented with a fiery double star at the top; innumerable threads of slimy stuff hung from its lower side.
“Suppose we put that on the sore?”
Madam Hermansen, in her first amazement, had hoisted her canvas beyond all reasonable limits; now, she let all down with a run.