"What in the world is it?" I said to myself; "all so fat and puffy."
I cudgelled my brain for a clue. As I examined the hand in silence
to play for time and conceal my ignorance, he went on:

"What I'm afraid of is blood-poisoning. I couldn't get out to a
doctor before a month, and by that time I'll be one-armed or dead.
I know which I'd prefer."

Knowing, at all events, that nothing but evil could come of fear,
I said: "Now see here. You can put that clean out of your mind.
You never saw blood-poisoning that colour, did you?"

"That's so," and he seemed intensely relieved.

While I was thus keeping up an air of omniscience by saying nothing,
Major Jarvis came up.

"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?"