--And the Fruits Thereof

Mr. Thompson slept fitfully that night. A hard day's paddling had left
him tired and sleepy, but the swarm of pain-devils in his slashed foot
destroyed his rest. When he got up at daylight and examined the wound
again he found himself afflicted with a badly swollen foot and ankle,
and a steady dull ache that extended upward past the knee. He was next
to helpless since every movement produced the most acute sort of
pain--sufficiently so that when he had made shift to get some breakfast
he could scarcely eat. In the course of his experiments in self-aid he
discovered that to lie flat on his back with the slashed foot raised
higher than his body gave a measure of ease. So he adopted this position
and stoically set out to endure the hurt. He lay in that position the
better part of the day--until, in fact, four in the afternoon brought
Sam Carr, shotgun in hand, to his door.

Carr had seldom been in the cabin. This evening, for some reason, he put
his head in the door, and whistled softly at sight of Thompson's
bandaged foot cocked up on a folded overcoat.

"Well, well," he said, standing his gun against the door casing and
coming in. "What have you done to yourself now?"

"Oh, I cut my foot with the axe last night, worse luck," Thompson
responded petulantly.

"Bad?" Carr inquired.

"Bad enough."

"Let me see it," Carr suggested. "It's a long way to a sawbones, and
Providence never seems quite able to cope with germs of infection. Have
you any sort of antiseptic dressing on it?"