“He has received an injury,” said he, “that must cause his death within that time. You can do nothing, beyond keeping him as quiet as possible.”
After pronouncing this melancholy prognosis, the surgeon took his departure, with a promise to call again in the morning.
I returned to the bedside of my doomed comrade.
He would talk, in spite of all I could do, or say, to prevent him.
“I will talk,” said he, “and there’s no use in your trying to stop me. I’ve not much longer to live; and why should I pretend to be dead, before I really am?”
I saw it was no use to attempt keeping him either quiet or silent. It only excited him all the more; and would, perhaps, do more harm to him than letting him have his way—which I at length did. He proceeded to inform me of all the particulars of the affair. His account slightly differed from that given me by the doctor, who had doubtless heard a one-sided statement, from the friends of the bully.
“I don’t know whether I’ve been sarved right or not,” said Stormy, after concluding his account. “I sartinly called the man some ugly names; and every one about here is likely to say that it was right for him to teach me manners. But why did he stab me with a knife? My legs were staggering drunk; and he might have thrashed me without that!”
On hearing Stormy’s statement, I became inspired with a feeling of fell indignation against the scoundrel, who had acted in such a cowardly manner: a determination, that my old comrade should be avenged.
I knew it would be idle to go before a magistrate, for the purpose of getting the bully punished, for the two men had come to blows, before the knife had been used.
The affair would be looked upon as an affray—in which either, or both, had the right to use whatever weapons they pleased—and Stormy would be thought deserving of his fate, for not protecting himself in a more efficient manner!