“Are you a doctor, sir?” asked the tearful woman, rising and coming towards him.

“Not exactly, Ma’am,” replied the lawyer; “but perhaps I may be of use.”

He then leaned over the sick man, and saw that he not only breathed, but had his eyes open upon the world in quite a sensible way.  “What is the matter?” he asked the reverend gentleman, who was also contemplating the recumbent Toner.

“He says his back is sore, paralyzed, and that he can’t move a limb,” replied the priest in an unprofessional tone.

“How did it happen, Mr. Toner?” enquired the lawyer; and Ben, in a feebly and husky voice, replied:—­

“I was rollin’ quite a loaud on the slaant, when I got ketched with a back sprain, and the loaud slipped and knocked me down, and rolled over my stummick.  That’s all.”

“Quite enough for one time,” said Coristine; “is there such a thing as a loose door, or some boards we can make into a stretcher, anywhere about?” Ben called to his mother to show the doctor where the door was that he was going to put on the hen-yard.  This was soon found, and, a blanket or two being laid upon it, the clergyman and the improvised doctor transferred the groaning patient to it, and so carried him into the house, where they undressed him and put him to bed on his face.  “Say, doctor, I’ll choke like this,” came from the bed in the sick man’s muffled voice, to the lawyer, who was ordering the widow to get some hot water and provide herself with towels or cotton cloths.  “No you won’t, Toner; turn your head to one side,” he called.  “That’s better,” remarked the patient, as he took advantage of the permission, and then continued:  “I’d like ef you’d call me Ben, doctor, not Toner; seems as ef I’d git better sooner that way.”  Coristine answered, “All right, Ben,” and withdrew to a corner with the priest for consultation.  “What’s the matter?” asked the priest, in a businesslike, unsympathetic tone.

“So, you give me back my question.  Well, as the water will be some time getting ready, and it will do our man no harm to feel serious for a few minutes more, I’ll go into it with your reverence homeopathically.  The root of his trouble is a whiskey back.  That accidentally led to a muscular strain, involving something a little more paralyzing than lumbago.  He has no bones broken in that strong frame of his, but the grindstones have bruised him abdominally.  I hope my treatment for the root of the disease will be more successful than that of the oriental physician, who prescribed for a man that had a pain in his stomach, caused by eating burnt bread.  The physician anointed him with eye salve, because he said the root of the disease lay in his eyes; had they been all right, he would not have eaten the burnt bread, and consequently would not have had the pains.”

The priest chuckled beneath his breath over the story; then, with earnestness, asked, or rather whispered:  “Will he get well soon?”