"Yes, an' he's deathly sick," added Granny. "Their own docther guv him
up an said mortal man couldn't save him nohow, so he jest hed to come
to me."

Another long groan was ample indorsement.

"Le's see. Gimme my scissors, Biddy; I'll hev to cut the pant leg
aff."

"No, no," Sam blurted out with sudden vigour, dreading the
consequences at home. "I kin roll it up."

"Thayer, thot'll do. Now I say," said the witch. "Yes, sure enough,
thayer _is_ proud flesh. I moight cut it out," said she, fumbling
in her pocket (Sam supposed for a knife, and made ready to dash for
the door), "but le's see, no--that would be a fool docther trick. I
kin git on without."

"Yes, sure," said Sam, clutching at the idea, "that's just what a fool
doctor would do, but you kin give me something to take that's far
better."

"Well, sure an' I kin," and Yan and Sam breathed more freely.
"Shwaller this, now," and she offered him a tin cup of water into
which she spilled some powder of dry leaves. Sam did so. "An' you
take this yer bundle and bile it in two gallons of wather and drink a
glassful ivery hour, an' hev a loive chicken sphlit with an axe an'
laid hot on the place twicet ivery day, till the proud flesh goes, an'
it'll be all right wid ye--a fresh chicken ivery toime, moind ye."