And so when Tom Lute told old Bob Likely that when he had a job to do he was accustomed to employ the best means at hand—he expressed in simple terms the lesson of his habitat. This affair of Terry Lute's finger was of gravest moment; had the finger gangrened—it must come off in haste, and the sooner the better; and an axe and a pot of tar were the serviceable instruments according to the teaching of all experience.
Doubtless doctors were better provided and more able; but as there was no doctor to be had, and as Terry Lute was loved and greatly desired in the flesh, and as he was apparently in peril of a sudden departure—and as he was in desperate pain—and as——
But Terry Lute would not have his finger off. From the corner, where he stood at bay, roaring in a way to silence the very gale that had now begun to shake the cottage, he ran to his mother's knee, as though for better harbour.
And there he sobbed his complaint.
"Ah, Terry, lad," his father pleaded; "'tis only a finger!"
"'Tis on my left hand!"
"You're not left-handed, son," Tom Lute argued, patiently. "You've no real need o' four fingers there. Why, sonny, boy, once I knowed a man——"
"'Tis one o' my fiddle fingers."
Tom Lute sighed. "Fiddle fingers, son!" said he. "Ah, now, boy! You've said that so often, an' so foolishly, that I——"