"That smells mighty good," said Jeff.
Bud helped him to rise, but after one effort Jeff sank back, groaning.
"It's my boot," he explained. "See--I'm wearing a number eight on a
number fifteen hoof. W-w-what? Pull it off? Not for ten thousand
dollars. We'll cut it off."
Jeff produced a knife and felt its edge.
"It's sharp," he said, "sharp as you, Bud; but-doggone it! I can't use
it."
Bud saw the sweat start on his skin as he tried to pull the injured
foot towards him.
"S'pose I do it?" the boy suggested.
"You've not got the nerve, Bud. Why, you're yaller as cheese, you poor
little cuss."
"I'm not," said the boy, flushing suddenly.
He took the knife and began to cut the tough leather: a delicate
operation, for Jeff's leg from knee to ankle was terribly swollen.
Slowly and delicately the knife did its work. Finally, a horribly
contused limb was revealed.
"Cold water--and plenty of it," murmured Jeff.
"Or hot?"
"Mebbee hot'd be better."
Bud disappeared, whistling.
"That boy's earning a five-dollar bill," said Jeff. "I'm a liar if he
ain't as bright as they make 'em.
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