"
"If that leg were mine, do you know what I'd do with it?"
"No; but it isn't yours."
"Well, I'd have it off--as quick as it could come, that's all. If
you don't, you'll lose your life."
"You don't mean that?" whispered Dunwody tensely, after a time.
"You don't mean that, Doctor?"
"I mean every word I say. It's blood poisoning."
The only answer his patient made was to reach a slow hand under his
pillow and draw out a long-barreled revolver, which he laid upon
the bed beside him.
"I didn't think you such a coward," ruminated Jamieson, rubbing his
chin.
"If you think I'm afraid of the hurt of it, I'll let you do your
work first, and I'll do mine afterward," gasped Dunwody slowly.
"But I'm not going to live a cripple. I'll not be maimed."
They looked each other firmly in the face.
"Is it so bad as all that, Doctor?" demanded Josephine. Her answer
was a sad look from the gray old eyes. "Blood poison. Some kind
of an aggravation. It's traveling fast.
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