"That's rather sporting of you," P. Sybarite grinned.
"Not at all; I just don't want to—don't feel like it. That sick feeling is gone—nothing but a steady agony like a hot iron through my shoulder—something any man with teeth to grit could stand."
"We'll find out soon enough. I don't pretend to be any sort of a dab at repairs on punctured humanity, but I read enough popular fiction myself to know that the only proper thing to do is to ruin that handsome coat of yours by cutting it off your back. We can anticipate the doctor to that extent, at least."
"That's one thing, at least, that the popular novelist knows right," asserted Mr. Kenny with conviction. "Sorry for the coat—but you'll find scissors yonder, on my desk."
And when P. Sybarite fetched them, he sat himself sideways in a straight-backed chair and cheerfully endured the little man's impromptu essays in first-aid measures.
A very little snipping and slashing sufficed to do away with the shoulder and sleeve of the boy's coat and to lay open his waistcoat as well, exposing a bloodstained shirt. And then, at the instant when P. Sybarite was noting with relief that the stain showed both in back and in front, the telephone shrilled.
"If you don't mind answering that—" grunted Mr. Kenny.
P. Sybarite was already at the instrument.
"Yes?" he answered. "Dr. Higgins?"
"Sorry, sir," replied a strange voice: "Dr. Higgins isn't in yet. Any message?"