"Look at this, Jarvis," said I; "isn't it a bad one? "Phew," said the Major, "that's the worst felon I ever saw." Like a gleam from heaven came the word felon. That's what it was, a felon or whitlow, and again I breathed freely. Turning to the patient with my most cock-sure professional air, I said: "Now see, Y., you needn't worry; you've hurt your finger in rowing, and the injury was deep and has set up a felon. It is not yet headed up enough; as soon as it is I'll lance it, unless it bursts of itself (and inwardly I prayed it might burst). Can you get any linseed meal or bran?" "Afraid not." "Well, then, get some clean rags and keep the place covered with them dipped in water as hot as you can stand it, and we'll head it up in twenty-four hours; then in three days I'll have you in good shape to travel." The last sentence, delivered with the calm certainty of a man who knows all about it and never made a mistake, did so much good to the patient that I caught a reflex of it myself. He gave me his good hand and said with emotion: "You don't know how much good you have done me. I don't mind being killed, but I don't want to go through life a cripple." "You say you haven't slept?" I asked. "Not for three nights; I've suffered too much." "Then take these pills. Go to bed at ten o'clock and take a pill; if this does not put you to sleep, take another at 10.30. If you are still awake at 11, take the third; then you will certainly sleep." He went off almost cheerfully. Next morning he was back, looking brighter. "Well," I said, "you slept last night, all right." "No," he replied, "I didn't; there's opium in those pills, isn't there?" "Yes." "I thought so. Here they are. I made up my mind I'd see this out in my sober senses, without any drugs." "Good for you," I exclaimed in admiration. "They talk about Indian fortitude. If I had given one of those Indians some sleeping pills, he'd have taken them all and asked for more. But you are the real American stuff, the pluck that can't be licked, and I'll soon have you sound as a dollar." Then he showed his immense bladder-like hand. "I'll have to make some preparation, and will operate in your shanty at 1 o'clock," I said, thinking how very professional it sounded. The preparation consisted of whetting my penknife and, much more important, screwing up my nerves. And now I remembered my friend's brandy, put the flask in my pocket, and went to the execution. He was ready. "Here," I said; "take a good pull at this brandy." "I will not," was the reply. "I'm man enough to go through on my mettle." "'Oh! confound your mettle," I thought, for I wanted an excuse to take some myself, but could not for shame under the circumstances. "Are you ready?" He laid his pudding-y hand on the table. "You better have your Indian friend hold that hand."