McLean in your prisint state, without me there
to explain matters the chance is he'd cut the liver out of you; and I
shouldn't think you'd be wanting such a fine gintleman as him to see
that it's white!"
Wessner grew ghastly under his grime and broke into a staggering run.
"And now will you be looking at the manners of him?" questioned Freckles
plaintively. "Going without even a 'thank you,' right in the face of all
the pains I've taken to make it interesting for him!"
Freckles twirled the club and stood as a soldier at attention
until Wessner left the clearing, but it was the last scene of that
performance. When the boy turned, there was deathly illness on his face,
while his legs wavered beneath his weight. He staggered to the case, and
opening it he took out a piece of cloth. He dipped it into the water,
and sitting on a bench, he wiped the blood and grime from his face,
while his breath sucked between his clenched teeth. He was shivering
with pain and excitement in spite of himself. He unbuttoned the band of
his right sleeve, and turning it back, exposed the blue-lined, calloused
whiteness of his maimed arm, now vividly streaked with contusions, while
in a series of circular dots the blood oozed slowly.
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