“Well, Baxter, how do you feel?”

The man turned his head feebly.

“Ay, doctor, not mighty grand.”

“Any pain now?”

“Pain, sir, plenty; not like the gripe, but just as if I had a lot of weed-killer sluicing about inside of me.”

“Ah! Any tenderness?”

The farmer winced under Murchison’s hand.

“Bless you, doctor, it be damned sore!”

“Where?”

“All over. What d’you think of me, sir? I guess I’m pretty bad.”