“What is it, my dear?” Big Bill asked, gently, for Polly was a very pretty girl. “Oh, my ear! It aches and stings and burns and smarts and--” “That'll do for a beginning,” Dr. Petticoat said, rolling up his sleeves and calling for basins of sterilized water and various antiseptics and disinfectants. “Can you do anything, Bill?” Warble asked anxiously, “it isn't ptomaines, you know.” “That's the devil of it! Why couldn't the silly thing have had a decent bit of ptomaine poisoning instead of this foolish earache. But, it's more than an earache! The bally ear has been stung--or something--anything bite you, Polly?” “Yes, sir, a wasp.” “She says a wathp!” exclaimed Warble. “Oh, Bill, it may mean blood poisoning!” “Yes, that's true--it is--the ear will have to come off. Guess I'd better call in old Grandberry to operate--he's an ear specialist--” “Oh, no, there won't be time! She may die!” Warble was dancing about in her excitement. “You can do it, Bill.” “All right. Get her up on the pastry table--there--that's all right. Now we'll take her blood pressure--here, Warb, you be taking her temperature, and send somebody for my stethoscope, and my case of instruments--and my X-ray apparatus. Now, my girl, don't cry. We'll fix you up.” Petticoat lighted a cigarette and sat down to take Polly's pulse. “That's right,” he said to the men who brought the things he had sent for, “scuttle back for my rubber gloves, and the chloroform outfit. Tell my man and his helpers to come down--I may need them--and bring me a clean handkerchief.” “Now for an X-ray,” he said, a little later, as he adjusted his portable X-razor. “Oh, it's all done,” said Warble, “While you were taking her plood bressure, I cut off her ear--” “What with?” “Oh, I had a boning knife and the sardine scissors. It's all right. And I've fixed her hair lovely--in a big curly earmuff, so it will never show at all. Be quiet for a day or so, Polly, and then you'll be all right. The only trouble is, after this, orders will probably go in one ear and out the other--” “You're a hummer, Warble,” Petticoat said, as they went back up stairs. “Yes, it had to be done quickly, you see. And it was out of your line, so I duffed in. But one thing bothered me a little. You see, the fire was out, and the cook lighted it with kerosene, and she used such a lot--something might of blew up.” “And you knew that! You knew that two Petticoats might have been blown up--” “Sure. Didn't you? Don't faint, pleathe!” CHAPTER XII Porgie Sproggins. Cave man. Brute. Hulking, enormous, shaggy-haired, prognathous jawed, a veritable Cro-magnard type. Bluely unshaven and scowling. Warble saw him first across the room at a picture exhibition in Manley Knight's gallery.