"Worse than a broken bone, sometimes."
Mr. Digby had laid himself down upon the cushions of the lounge; sweat stood on his brow, and the colour varied in his face. He was in great pain.
"Where is Mrs. Cord?"
"She's out. She's gone to New York. I know she meant to go. What shall I do for you, Mr. Digby?"
"You cannot—"
"O yes, I can; I can as well as anybody. Only tell me what. Please, Mr.
Digby!"—Rotha's entreaty was made with most intense expression.
"Salt and water is the thing,—but the boot must come off. You cannot get it off, nor anybody, except with a knife. Rotha, give me the clasp knife that lies on my table over yonder."
Mr. Digby proceeded to open the largest blade and to make a slit in the leg of his boot. The slit was enlarged, with difficulty and evident suffering, till the whole top of the boot was open; but the ankle and foot, the hardest part of the task, were still to do, and the swollen foot had made the leather very tight.
"I cannot manage it," said Mr. Digby throwing down the knife. "I cannot get at it. You'll have to send for a surgeon, after all, Rotha, to carve this leather."
"Mr. Digby, may I try?"