"What is it, my dear?" Big Bill asked, gently, for Polly was a very pretty
girl. "Oh, my ear! It aches and stings and burns and smarts and--"
"That'll do for a beginning," Dr. Petticoat said, rolling up his sleeves
and calling for basins of sterilized water and various antiseptics and
disinfectants.
"Can you do anything, Bill?" Warble asked anxiously, "it isn't ptomaines,
you know."
"That's the devil of it! Why couldn't the silly thing have had a decent bit
of ptomaine poisoning instead of this foolish earache. But, it's more than
an earache! The bally ear has been stung--or something--anything bite you,
Polly?"
"Yes, sir, a wasp."
"She says a wathp!" exclaimed Warble. "Oh, Bill, it may mean blood
poisoning!"
"Yes, that's true--it is--the ear will have to come off. Guess I'd better
call in old Grandberry to operate--he's an ear specialist--"
"Oh, no, there won't be time! She may die!"
Warble was dancing about in her excitement. "You can do it, Bill."
"All right. Get her up on the pastry table--there--that's all right. Now
we'll take her blood pressure--here, Warb, you be taking her temperature,
and send somebody for my stethoscope, and my case of instruments--and my
X-ray apparatus. Now, my girl, don't cry. We'll fix you up.
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