"Plumb sure! Sure as I am you're going to have a mighty bad chest if you don't come inside and let me stop that oozing blood I see coming through your clothes."
Without further protest Dave followed the doctor into the office, and submitted to the operation.
"That's a rotten bad place," he assured him, in his brisk way. "You'll have to lie up. You ought to be dead beat from loss of blood. Gad, man, you must go home, or I won't answer——"
But Dave broke in testily.
"Right ho, Doc, you go and see to the boys. Send your bill in to me for the lot."
As soon as he had gone, Dave sat thoughtfully gazing at the doomed sawyer. Presently he glanced round at the brandy bottle. The doctor had positively said the poor fellow was doomed. He rose from his seat and poured out a stiff drink. Then he knelt down, and supporting the man's head, held it to his lips. He drank it eagerly. Dave knew it had been his one pleasure in life. Then he went back to his chair.
"Feeling comfortable?" he inquired gently.
"Yes, boss," came the man's answer promptly. Then, "Wot did the Doc say?"
"Guess you're handing in your checks," Dave replied, after a moment's deliberation.
The sawyer's eyes were on the brandy bottle.