“They’ve been frozen again and again,” he said.
“And they’ll rot if you ain’t careful.”
“I s’pose they will.”
Marton bestirred himself. He drew out of a pocket the bandages and ointments he had procured from Molly.
“We best not try to heal ’em,” he said. “You’ll get worse trouble that way. This dope’ll maybe save ’em from gangrene, and the bandages’ll keep the frost out of ’em—and the dirt. It’s the best I know. Here, we’ll wash ’em first.”
For ten minutes or so the farmer worked with the skill of long experience in frost-bites. He worked in silence, and his patient offered neither comment, nor protest, nor expression of pain. Then, when the operation was completed, Marton sent him back to his seat and returned to his position on the bench. He lit his pipe.
“Well?” he said, in that meaning fashion so comprehensive in difficult circumstances.
The convict shook his head.
“What’re you going to do?”
The blue eyes were smiling, but a shadow of anxiety was looking out of them.