"As a matter of fact," he said thoughtfully, when P. Sybarite had
followed him in and shut the door--"I'm wondering how much of a bluff
I may be, after all."
"Meaning--?"
"By all literary precedent I ought to faint now, after my magnificent
exhibition of superhuman endurance. But I'm not going to."
"That's rather sporting of you," P. Sybarite grinned.
"Not at all; I just don't want to--don't feel like it. That sick
feeling is gone--nothing but a steady agony like a hot iron through my
shoulder--something any man with teeth to grit could stand."
"We'll find out soon enough. I don't pretend to be any sort of a dab
at repairs on punctured humanity, but I read enough popular fiction
myself to know that the only proper thing to do is to ruin that
handsome coat of yours by cutting it off your back. We can anticipate
the doctor to that extent, at least."
"That's one thing, at least, that the popular novelist knows _right_,"
asserted Mr. Kenny with conviction. "Sorry for the coat--but you'll
find scissors yonder, on my desk."
And when P. Sybarite fetched them, he sat himself sideways in a
straight-backed chair and cheerfully endured the little man's
impromptu essays in first-aid measures.
A very little snipping and slashing sufficed to do away with the
shoulder and sleeve of the boy's coat and to lay open his waistcoat as
well, exposing a bloodstained shirt.
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