“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I won’t need any more to-night, and to-morrow I’ll get some more from the doctor.”
Sid was the first to awaken the next morning. A peculiar sensation about his injured hand called his attention to it. He pulled it from under the covers and glanced at it. Then he tried to bend the fingers. They were as stiff as pieces of wood. So was the thumb. It was as if it had been encased in a plaster cast.
“I say, you fellows!” called Sid in some alarm.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Tom. “Don’t you know it’s Sunday, and we can sleep as long as we like?”
“Look at my hand! Look at it!” exclaimed Sid tragically. “I can’t use it!”
Something in his tones made Tom get up. He strode over to the bed.
“Say, that is mighty queer,” he remarked, as he tried to bend Sid’s fingers, and could not. “You must have given yourself a fearful knock.”
“Or else that liniment wasn’t the right thing for it,” added Phil, sitting up. “Better call the doc.”