CHAPTER V.
THE ACCIDENT.
“YOU will have to amuse yourself indoors to-day,” said Clinton to his cousin, the next morning, as he looked out of the window, soon after the accustomed triple rap had aroused him from his slumbers. The rain was falling fast, and the direction of the wind betokened a storm rather than a shower. Whistler was somewhat disappointed, as he and Clinton had planned a ride; but he concluded to make the best of it, and find such amusement as he could in the barn, the shop, and the house.
After breakfast the boys went out to the barn, Clinton having several jobs to attend to. Whistler, not liking to be idle, took it into his head to cut up some hay for the horse,—a kind of work which he could do as well as Clinton. The hay-cutter, as most of you know, consists of a sort of shallow wooden trough, with a cylinder, in which are several sharp knives, at one end of it. The cylinder is made to revolve very fast, by means of an iron wheel and crank turned by the hand; and as the hay is pushed slowly against the knives, it is cut into short pieces, and falls into the vessel placed to receive it. Whistler had worked at the machine but a few minutes, when some drops of fresh blood on the hay attracted his attention. He looked at his left hand, which was feeding the machine, and found, to his astonishment, that the end of the fore finger was missing! For an instant, he could hardly believe his eyes, for the knife had done its work so neatly that he felt no pain nor unusual sensation in the mutilated finger; but the flowing blood quickly dispelled all doubt as to what had happened.
“Clinton!” he called, “come here, quick! I’ve cut my finger off!”
Clinton, pale with fright, ran to his aid; but he seemed somewhat relieved when he found that his cousin had not lost the whole finger, but only about half an inch of it. It was bad enough, however, as it was; and he sympathized most tenderly with Whistler. They were about to go into the house, when a new idea occurred to Clinton.
“Where is the piece that came off? Have you found it?” he inquired.
“No,” replied Whistler.
“We must find it, then, and put it on before it gets cold. I shouldn’t wonder if it would grow on again. I believe I’ve heard of such things,” said Clinton.
“You look for it, then,—I can’t. I don’t want to see it,” said Whistler, who began to feel faint and sick from the sight of blood. “O, dear!” he added, “what shall I do? My visit is spoilt!—and I thought I should have such a good time!” And the tears began to flow fast.
“Don’t say so, Willie,” said Clinton, who was looking among the hay for the end of the finger. “This won’t be a very bad affair. I know you’ll have a good time yet, before your vacation is over.”