“Slip round to Brownie,” he said, sharply, to Norah. “She knows where the permanganate is—there’s some in the store, and some in the office.” Norah’s racing feet sounded in the hall almost before he had spoken, and he turned back to his chum.
“Would you rather do it, old man?” he asked.
Wally nodded, without speaking. There were two punctures plainly visible on the lean hand he steadied on the verandah rail.
“Parallel cuts,” said Jim. “Quick, Wal.” He flung a hasty command over his shoulder to Jean. “The men are at the stables—tell them I want the dog-cart with the cobs, as hard as they can tear!”
The knife was razor-edged, and Wally did not flinch. He cut deep and quickly, the blood spurting in the track of the blade. Jim was already busy with a ligature on his arm, tightening it with a stick twisted almost to breaking point. As the last cut went home, and Wally put down the knife, Jim caught his hand and bent down to it. Wally uttered a sharp exclamation, struggling.
“Get out, you old idiot! I’ll suck my own blessed hand!”
He tried to wrench his hand away, but the grasp on his wrist was iron. Jim’s lips were on the wound, sucking it furiously.
“Oh, Lord, I wish you wouldn’t!” said Wally, miserably. “I can do it perfectly well myself; and you may have a scratch about your mouth. For goodness sake, stop it, old man! What’s the good of two of us getting the dose?”
Jim, being otherwise engaged, did not answer. He continued his operations strenuously, deaf to Wally’s entreaties, until Norah came flying back with Brownie in the rear.
“Here are the crystals, Jim!”