"Oh, ay, sir! 'Twas some queer sort o' colour."
"What colour?"
"Well, sir," said Bob, cautiously, "I wouldn't say as t' that. I'd jus' say 'twas some mortal queer sort o' colour an' be content with my labour."
"Was there a definite line between the discolouration and what seemed to be sound flesh?"
Bob Likely scratched his head in doubt.
"I don't quite mind," said he, "whether there was or not."
"Then there was not," the Doctor declared, relieved. "You would not have failed to note that line. 'Tis not gangrene. The lad's all right. That's good. Everybody else well on Amen Island?"
Bob was troubled.
"They're t' cut that finger off," said he, "jus' as soon as little Terry will yield. Las' night, sir, we wasn't able t' overcome his objection. 'Tis what he calls one of his fiddle fingers, sir, an' he's holdin' out——"