“What’s the matter, boy?” said the stumbler; “what are you yelping about?”
“Matter enough,” I replied, “when a ton of a man hits a sore leg!”
He made no immediate reply except to say, “Which leg is it?” And then, unwinding my puttee and the bandage, began rubbing my leg with his strong magnetic hands. Then skillfully rewinding the bandage, he asked: “What’s the matter with your arm?”
“Bullet hole,” I replied. “But it is all right.”
He turned back my slit sleeve, unwound the bandage, took a critical look, and said, “See here, youngster, you haven’t been giving that arm a fair chance.”
“What do you know about it?” I asked rather testily. “It don’t hurt much.”
“It’s inflamed and in pretty bad shape,” he replied half to himself; and then in answer to my question, “I am something of a surgeon-graduate of a medical school.”
Then, with medicaments taken from his kit he cleansed and bandaged the wound, saying emphatically as he turned down my sleeve, “You’ll be short an arm if you aren’t careful!”
“I guess not,” I replied carelessly. “I am expecting to get among civilized folks before long and have it fixed all right.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it? Well, you’ve got confidence in yourself. How do you plan to get away?”