penetrated by a common bungler.

Hunston was at last so tortured that, disguising himself, he one day
left the mountains, and sought the advice of a surgeon.

"The man who planned this arm," said the surgeon to whom Hunston
submitted it for examination, "must have devoted a lifetime to the
manufacture and perfecting of this mechanical limb."

Hunston smiled.

He knew too well how little time the wretched man Emmerson gave to any
thing like industrial pursuits.

"What is this?" asked this same surgeon, pointing to the flat of the
arm, where the engraved legend was almost obscured with a dark stain.

Hunston changed colour and fidgeted about.

"I don't know."

"There is something written."

"Yes, yes, so I believe, but it is obscured by that stain--a stain--"

He peered closer into the arm yet, and looked serious, as turning to
Hunston, he said--

"Why, it is a blood-stain."