“That’s nasty bad,” Johnson commented as he tried to wash the wound. “It’s almost tore from his head—this ear!”
“Sew it back,” commanded Caleb.
“But he’ll bear the scar for life.”
“Can’t help that! Sew it back! Mustn’t have so gamey a little bantam goin’ through life with one ear missin’!”
Johnson phoned for Doctor Birch to help him. Birch brought a crude anesthetizing outfit. The ear was sewed at once to prevent the loss of more blood. The lad was as white as paper in his coma. The exertion of the past half-hour had been terrific. It showed grisly on his features.
Two o’clock arrived before the surgery was finished. Nat’s head was swathed in bandages which were reduced to ribbons in the boy’s thrashings, as he came out from under the anesthetic.
“Leave him here!” ordered Caleb. “He’s gotta stay here till he’s stronger.” Then as Nathan gradually quieted, he demanded of the yard boss: “What started that mix-up, anyhow?”
“Poetry!” said old Richards. “This!” And he proffered a torn and besmirched notebook.
“Poetry!” cried Caleb. “Lemme see!”
“He’s always moonin’ ’round, writin’ poetry,” volunteered Richards. “Si yanked it outer his hands and Nat waded into him. We always thought Nat was a mollycoddle, sort of, ‘count of his poetry and dandified talk. But I guess after this he can do as he pleases.”