I must now say a word or two of the externals damaged by the fall of the ladder. Notwithstanding the best surgical skill, my arm showed the appearance of stiff and withered deformity at the end of three months from the accident. And now my general state of health was not as it ought to be; for incessant pain prevented sleep, whilst food itself did little good. But my slumbers were strangely affected. I was eternally fighting wild beasts, with a club in one hand, the other being bound up at my breast. Nine bull-dogs attacked me one night, on the high road, some of them having the head of a crocodile. I had now serious thoughts of having the arm amputated. This operation was fully resolved upon, when, luckily, the advice of my trusty game-keeper, John Ogden, rendered it unnecessary. One morning, “master,” said he to me, “I’m sure you’re going to the grave. You’ll die to a certainty. Let me go for our old Bone-setter. He cured me, long ago, and perhaps he can cure you. It was on the 25th of March, then—alias Lady Day, which every Catholic in the universe knows is solemn festival in the honor of the Blessed Virgin—that I had an interview with Mr. Joseph Crowther, the well known Bone-setter, whose family has exercised the art from father to son time out of mind.” On viewing my poor remnant of an arm—“Your wrist,” said he, “is sorely injured, a callus having formed betwixt the hand and the arm. The elbow is out of joint and the shoulder somewhat driven forward. This last affair will prevent your raising your arm to your head.” Melancholy look out! “But can you cure me, doctor?” said I. “Yes,” replied he firmly; “only let me have my own way.” “Then take the arm, and with it elbow, wrist and shoulder. I here deliver them up to you; do what you please with them. Pain is no consideration in this case, I dare say I shall have enough of it.” “You will,” said he, emphatically. This resolute bone-setter, whom I always compared to Chiron the Centaur for his science and his strength, began his operations like a man of business. In fourteen days, by means of potent embrocations, stretching, pulling, twisting, and jerking, he forced the shoulder and wrist to obey him and to perform their healthy movements. The elbow was a complicated affair. It required greater exertions and greater attention—in fact, it was a job for Hercules himself. Having done the needful to it (secundum artem) for one-and-twenty days, he seemed satisfied with the progress which he had made; and he said quite coolly, “I’ll finish you off this afternoon.” At four o’clock _post meridian_, his bandages, his plasters and his wadding having been placed on the table in regular order, he doffed his coat, tucked his shirt-sleeves above his elbows, and said that a glass of ale would do him good. “Then I’ll have a glass of soda water with you,” said I, “and we’ll drink each other’s health and success to the undertaking.”