onfidence
which he was destined to repent.

"Sit down there," said Sam, pointing out the patient's chair.

The patient obeyed.

"Now take off your boots. You don't think I can cut through the boot,
do you?"

He was obeyed.

Sam began to fumble among the sharp instruments.

"What are you goin to do?" asked the patient, rather alarmed.

"Oh, don't be afraid," said Sam. "You won't feel it."

"Won't feel the knife?"

"No, I'm goin to put on some liquid that'll take away the feeling."

"Shure you ought to know," said the patient, his confidence
returning.

"Of course I do," said Sam.

"Now sit still."

[Illustration of Sam and his Patient.]

Thus far Sam was perfectly self-possessed. He went about his
preparations with an air that imposed upon the patient. But the
difficulty was to come.

Things which look easy often are found difficult when attempted. When
Sam began to wield the doctor's instruments he did so awkwardly. He
lacked that delicacy of touch which can only be acquired by practice,
and the result was tragical. The knife slipped, inflicting a deep
gash, and causing a quick flow of blood.

"Oh, murder, I'm kilt!" exclaimed the terrified patient, bounding to
his feet, and rushing frantically round the room. "I'm bladin' to
death."

Sam was almost equally frightened. He stood, with the knife in his
hand, panic-stricken.

"I'll have you up for murder, I will!" shouted Mr. Dennis O'Brien,
clutching the wounded member. "Oh, why did I ever come to a boy
doctor? Oh, whirra, whirra!"

"I didn't mean to do it," said Sam, frightened.

"You'll be hanged for killin' me, bad 'cess to you. Go for a doctor,
quick."

Almost out of his wits Sam was about to obey, when as he opened the
door he confronted his employer. Under ordinary circumstances he would
have been sorry to have him come in so soon. Now he was glad.

"What's the meaning of all this?" asked Dr. Graham, surveying with
astonishment the Irishman prancing around the office, and Sam's scared
face.

"He's kilt me, doctor," said Dennis, groaning.

"He? Who?"

"The young doctor, shure."

"Who's he?"

"That's the one," said Mr. O'Brien, pointing to Sam. "He's cut my toe
off, and I'm bladin' to death."

"What does this mean, Sam?" said the doctor, sternly.

"He was in a hurry," stammered Sam, "and I didn't want him to go away,
so I thought I'd try to cure him, but the knife slipped, and--"

"I'll attend to your case afterwards. Sit do