“How lucky!” he said, as he tore it into strips. “I think this will do. Now, you'll stop me, won't you, if I hurt you, or don't do it right?”
“Don't be afraid, I'm much better. Bind it tight, tighter than that.”
He wound the strips as tenderly as he could round her foot and ankle, with hands all alive with nerves, and wondering more and more at her courage as she kept urging him to draw the bandage tighter yet. Then, still under her direction, he fastened and pinned down the ends; and as he was rather neat with his fingers, from the practice of tying flies and splicing rods and bats, produced, on the whole, a creditable sort of bandage. Then he looked up at her, the perspiration standing on his forehead, as if he had been pulling a race, and said,
“Will that do? I'm afraid it's very awkward.”
“Oh, no; thank you so much! But I'm so sorry you have torn your handkerchief.”
Tom made no answer to this remark, except by a look. What could he say, but that he would gladly have torn his skin off for the same purpose, if it would have been of any use. But this speech did not seem quite the thing for the moment.
“But how do you feel? Is it very painful?” he asked.
“Rather. But don't look so anxious. Indeed, it is very bearable. But what are we to do now?”
He thought for a moment, and said, with something like a sigh—
“Shall I run home, and bring the servants and a sofa, or something to carry you on?”