Allen Chapman - Ned Wilding's Disappearance - or, The Darewell Chums in the City

The Keene household was suddenly aroused from peacefulness, one quiet afternoon, by a loud thud as if something had fallen. It was followed by a report like an explosion. Then, from Bart’s room, sounded a series of yells.

“Wow! Ouch! Jimminities!”

“He’s hurt!” exclaimed his sister Alice, as she ran toward her brother’s room. As she entered she saw him running about the apartment, which was filled with smoke, holding one hand in the other. Drops of blood were coming from his fingers.

“What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” asked Alice. “Oh, Bart, are you really hurt?”

“Am I hurt? Do you think I’m doing this for fun? Where’s mother?”

“She’s gone out. I’m the only one home.”

“Get a rag or something, will you please Alice?” and Bart danced around on one leg, holding the other limb out so stiffly that he knocked over several chairs.

“Is your leg hurt too, Bart?”

“No, it’s only my three fingers.”

“But you stuck one leg out so I thought that was injured also.”

“I’d stick ’em both out if it would only ease this pain any! Maybe my fingers will have to come off!”

“Oh, Bart! What did it?”

“My new gun. I went to lay it down on the table and it fell to the floor and went off. Did you hear it?”

“I couldn’t very well help it. Did the bullet go through your hand?”

“It doesn’t shoot bullets. It shoots shot, and I guess it only grazed a few fingers. Most of the shot went into the wall,” and Bart gazed at a dark spot on the wall-paper, and then looked at his injured hand. “I didn’t think it would go off so easily,” he added.

“Oh, those horrid guns!” exclaimed the girl. “I just knew when papa let you send for it – ”

“Say, Alice, if you ever intend to be a trained nurse you’d better get to work on me before I faint!" cried Bart. “Now don’t talk any more, that’s a good girl. Get a rag before I bleed to death.”

“Oh, Bart, I’m so sorry! Of course I’ll fix you up. Wait until I get my book,” and Alice, whose ambition was to be a nurse and wear a blue and white striped uniform, hurried to her room and came back with a little book. On the cover was a red cross, and the inscription, “First Aid to the Injured.”

“What kind of a wound is it, Bart?” Alice asked, rapidly turning the leaves of the volume.

“How should I know? It’s a painful wound, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, no! Is it incised or lacerated or a contused one? Because you see I have to give it different kind of treatment if it’s an incised wound than I would if it’s a lacerated one.”

“Oh, give me any kind of treatment!” and Bart began to dance around again. “The shot grazed my fingers, that’s all I know!”

“I guess that’s a lacerated wound,” Alice replied a little doubtfully, as she took a look at her brother’s bleeding hand. Then she turned to the page of the book that treated of lacerated hurts and read:

“‘These wounds have ragged edges and the skin is torn and bruised.’”

“That’s me all right,” interrupted Bart.

“‘They result from force so applied as to tear rather than cut the tissues cleanly,’” the girl read on.

“Oh, I’m cut all right,” put in Bart. “Hurry up Alice, stick some court plaster on and let it go at that.”

“Why, Bart Keene! I’m ashamed of you! The idea of me putting such a common remedy as court plaster on a wound! Why, you’d get bloodpoison and other dreadful things! I must treat this just as I expect to treat other wounds when I get to be a trained nurse.”

“You’ll never get to be one at this rate,” Bart cut in.

“‘They are caused by railway and machinery accidents,’” Alice read on, “‘by falling timbers, stones and brick. Such wounds are frequently followed by shock.’”

“Well, this wasn’t a railroad accident, nor one caused by falling bricks or timber,” Bart retorted. “I guess it will come under the head of machinery. A gun’s machinery, I s’pose. But I can testify to the shock. Wow!” and, as a sudden spasm of pain seized him, he snatched his hand from the grasp of his sister and again began dancing around on one leg.

“Hold still! How can I treat the wound if you jerk around that way?” demanded Alice.

“Treat the wound! You aren’t treating any wound!” retorted Bart. “I could treat ten wounds in that time! All you’re doing is talk! If Fenn Masterson or Ned Wilding was here they’d have a rag around this long ago.”

“Yes, and it would probably be full of germs and other things and you’d be dead of lock-jaw,” said Alice calmly. “Now Bart, come here. I know what kind of a wound it is, and I must see how to fix it,” and once more securing her brother’s hand for examination, she began to leaf over the book.

“‘Treatment,’” she read. “‘Cleanse the wound thoroughly with warm water, lay a wet cloth over it and bandage lightly. If symptoms of shock are present they must receive careful attention. See page twenty-two.’”

“Never mind the shock, just get a rag on these fingers before I lose all the blood I’ve got and we’ll talk shock afterward,” interrupted Bart.

Then Alice, laying aside her book, brought some warm water in a basin, and some soft cloths, and soon had Bart’s hand tied up in a sling.

“You’ve got enough rags on here to make my hand look as big as my head,” objected the boy, as he gazed at the bandage his sister had adjusted.

“You don’t want to catch cold in it,” she replied. “It is very chilly to-day. I think we’re going to have more snow.”

“Ought to have some, with Thanksgiving here in about a week,” replied Bart.

“How did you get hurt?” asked his sister again.

“I was examining my new shotgun. It just came – Hark! Who’s that calling?”

“Oh, some of the boys I s’pose,” and Alice went to the window and looked down to the street, whence came a series of shrill whistles.

“Raise the window and I’ll yell to ’em to come up,” said Bart.

“Don’t you come near this window,” commanded Alice. “You forget you’re under treatment. If you should catch cold in that hand it might be terrible! I’ll call the boys. You go back in that corner.”

Then, as Bart meekly obeyed, Alice raised the sash and called:

“Come up, boys! Bart is hurt and can’t come down!”

“They’ll think I’m in bed,” her brother objected.

A few seconds later there sounded the noise of several feet on the stairs. A moment afterward three lads hurried into the room. They had just come from school, but Bart had not attended the afternoon session.

“Hello Frank!” cried Bart. “Howdy, Stumpy? How are you, Ned?”

“What’s the matter?” asked Ned, noticing the bandage on Bart’s hand.

“Oh, hurt myself with the gun. Went off before I was ready.”

“The gun!” exclaimed Frank.

“Got a new gun?” asked Fenn.

“Let’s see it,” demanded Ned.

“Here she is,” exclaimed Bart, and then, forgetting his sore hand, he took from the corner a fine shotgun. “It’s a beauty,” he went on. “It’s got patent – ”

“Oh! Oh!” screamed Alice. “Your hand!”

“What’s the matter with my hand?” asked Bart holding the gun in the one that had been injured.

“Why you’ve taken it from the sling. The blood will rush to it and – and – ”

“Oh, I guess it’s all right,” spoke Bart carelessly, as he held up the gun. “You see fellows, this is the patent ejector, and the barrels – ”