“All the result of having a musical ear,” he explained.  “I made the boy who carried it put my banjo in a hollow of that tree out of the wet, and when I saw the old stick was going to crash down, I made a grab for the ’jo, and got it right enough.  Well, I wasn’t sufficiently nippy in jumping out of the way, it seems, and as the old banjo’s busted for good, I shall have to trouble you for a funeral march on the accordion, Skipper.”

“Funeral be hanged!” said Kettle.  “You’re worth a whole cemetery full of dead men yet.”

“Speaking as a doctor,” said Clay cheerfully, “I may tell you that your unprofessional opinion is rot.  Now, if I’d a brother sawbones here to perform amputation, I might have a chance—­say, one in a thousand.”

“Your leg ought to be cut off?”

“Just there, above the knee.  That’ll mortify in twenty hours from now.  Thank the Lord I never wasted much morphia on the niggers.  There’s plenty in stock.  So it won’t worry me much.”

“Look here,” said Kettle, “I will cut that leg off for you.”

“You!  My good Skipper, you’re a handy man, I know, but what the blazes do you know about amputation?”

“You’ve got to teach me.  You can show me the tools to use, and draw diagrams of where the arteries come.”

“By the powers, I’ve a great mind to.  There’s something pretty rich in giving an amputation lecture with one’s own femorals as a subject.”

“You’d better,” said Kettle grimly, “or I shall cut it off without being taught.  I like you a lot too well, my man, to let you die for want of a bit of help.”

And so, principally because the grotesqueness of the situation appealed to his whimsical sense of humor, Clay forthwith proceeded to pose as an anatomy demonstrator addressing a class, and expounded the whole art of amputation, handling the utensils of the surgeon’s craft with the gusto of an expert, and never by shudder or sigh showing a trace of the white feather.  He carried the whole thing through with a genial gayety, pointing his sentences now with a quip, now with some roguish sparkle of profanity, and finally he announced that the lecture was complete and over, and then he nodded familiarly at his wounded limb.

“By-bye, old hoof!” he said.  “You’ve helped carry the rest of me into some queer scrapes, one time and another.  But we’ve had good times together, as well as bad, you and I, and anyway, I’m sorry to lose you.  And now, skipper,” said he, “get off your coat and wade in.  I’ve put on the Esmarch’s bandage for you.  Don’t be niggardly with the chloroform—­I’ve got a good heart.  And remember to do what I told you about that femoral artery, and don’t make a mistake there, or else there’ll be a mess on the floor.  Shake hands, old man, and good luck to your surgery; and anyway, thank you for your trouble.”