"Lice, sir?" roared Caleb. "Where are they? Do you mean——?"
"I mean a post is a good louse-killer, but a little oil and a match are better."
Caleb, as you know by this time, was a coward. He outran fire-and-oil justice, and was caught in the mesh of circumstances. He leaped over a beehive and alighted between two lines of barbed-wire fence. After spending the night with barbed-wire and bees he was very properly removed to the hospital.
"His legs must be amputated," said the physicians.
"That means what?" asked Caleb, arousing himself as from a dream.
"Death, perchance," said they.
"That means the morgue?" asked he, with a grunt.
"For such as you, yes," replied one.
"My legs, gentlemen, my legs! The morgue! The morgue! I see it. How cold it is! Gentlemen, are you gentlemen? My legs! My legs!"