“Now you have done it!” exclaimed Tom.
“Who?” demanded Sid.
“You and Phil. Why didn’t you let me do the doctoring? You two dopes aren’t able to look after yourselves! Look at the rug now!”
“It was as much your fault as ours,” declared Sid. “Why didn’t you grab the bottle?”
“Why didn’t you hand it to me? I like your nerve!”
“That’s a nice spot on a rug,” said Phil in disgust.
“It adds to the beauty,” declared Sid. “It just matches the big grease spot on the other side, which was left as a souvenir by the former occupants of this study. They must have made a practice of dropping bread and butter on the floor about eight nights a week. But say, if you want to do something, Tom, rub this stuff into my thumb, will you?”
“Sure; wait until I pick up this broken glass. I don’t want to cut my feet on it, in case I should take to walking in my sleep.”
He was soon vigorously massaging Sid’s injured hand, using a piece of flannel as directed by Phil, and was given a vote of thanks for the professional manner in which he did it.
“I’m sorry about your liniment, Phil,” said Tom. “It’s all gone. The only thing I see for you to do is to cut out that piece of the rug where it has soaked in, and bind it on your shoulder.”