When the Doctor said, “Untie his hands,” the circle widened perceptibly.
“Isn't it a leetle rash to give him the use of his hands? I see there's females and children standin' near.”
This was the remark of our old friend, Deacon Soper, who retired from the front row, as he spoke, behind a respectable-looking, but somewhat hastily dressed person of the defenceless sex, the female help of a neighboring household, accompanied by a boy, whose unsmoothed shock of hair looked like a last year's crow's-nest.
But Abel untied his hands, in spite of the Deacon's considerate remonstrance.
“Now,” said the Doctor, “the first thing is to put the joint back.”
“Stop,” said Deacon Soper,—“stop a minute. Don't you think it will be safer—for the women-folks—jest to wait till mornin', afore you put that j'int into the socket?”
Colonel Sprowle, who had been called by a special messenger, spoke up at this moment.
“Let the women-folks and the deacons go home, if they're scared, and put the fellah's j'int in as quick as you like. I 'll resk him, j'int in or out.”
“I want one of you to go straight down to Dudley Venner's with a message,” the Doctor said. “I will have the young man's shoulder in quick enough.”
“Don't send that message!” said Dick, in a hoarse voice;—“do what you like with my arm, but don't send that message! Let me go,—I can walk, and I'll be off from this place. There's nobody hurt but myself. Damn the shoulder!—let me go! You shall never hear of me again!”