Dr. Stone said: “Could Ira get Lady a drink, Foster?”
Ira brought water in a pan. The blind man, shifting the leash, stumbled against the dog and tottered. Joe, with a cry of alarm, sprang forward. But the doctor’s arms, outstretched, had gone around the hired man; they slipped along the stout body, down, down—. He caught himself and stood erect. Ira Close swore morosely and swung an arm.
“That finger?” Dr. Stone asked, concerned. “I warned you. Why didn’t you have a doctor see it?”
“I fixed it myself.”
“Nonsense. Here; give it to me.”
After a moment of hesitation the hand was held out. Joe watched his uncle’s fingers move as though they had eyes. The tweezers came out of the kit. Abruptly the doctor’s body was between him and the throbbing wound.
“Fever in here,” the blind man said; “infected.” Ira Close cried aloud. Joe glimpsed a corner of his uncle’s face, intent, strained; then there was the drip of iodine, and Dr. Stone stepped back. The blind eyes were bland and serene.
“Have Mrs. Foster bandage it,” he said.
Ira went into the house. The kitchen door slammed shut, and immediately tranquility left the doctor.
“Tucker, stay here. Joe, this way. A few minutes, Foster; just a few minutes.”