I was almost as surprised as they when Verrieul spoke. His voice was deep and rich, unlike his usual manner of speech, which was simple and engaging. It was not only the voice of an actor, but the voice of an old actor, who cannot even say “Good morning” without investing the words with a quaver of emotion.

The two who had been sniffing at Doc’s asafoetida bags immediately dropped them on the ground and stared intently at Verrieul. When he spoke again, moving his bound hands and feet suggestively, they all made coughing sounds that seemed to rise from their stomachs. The oldest Indian—the new arrival—hurriedly went to Doc and untied him.

Doc scrambled to his feet. “By Grapes!” he said—and it was the first time I had ever seen him angry—“I been around a good deal, here and there, but that’s the first time I ever see a sick man treated that way!” He stood swaying before the oldest of the Indians, and his faded blue eyes were hard as glass. “Ain’t you got no sense?” he asked bitterly. “Don’t you know nothing, you jabbed smut-faced weasels? If I raked hell and strained the ocean, I couldn’t find a meaner set o’ minks than you! Where’s my supplies?”

There was no mistaking the tenor of Doc’s remarks. All seven of the Indians stepped uneasily away from the bundles.

Doc gathered them together; then turned to Nathaniel. For all his apparent feebleness, Doc could move as fast as anyone, if not faster; for when he seemed to be stumbling and falling, he was in reality engaged in getting somewhere in the manner he found most expeditious. He stumbled and wavered above Nathaniel; and almost before I knew what had happened, he had jerked the rope from his wrists and ankles.

“Here,” Doc said to the oldest Indian, “make yourself useful, why don’t you!” He pointed to Nathaniel and made imperious motions. The Indian obediently took Nathaniel under the arms and held him up. From one of his bundles Doc unwrapped a trigger lancet and a small chart. The chart was his Venesection Mannekin; and when he opened it, the other Indians crowded close to stare open-mouthed at the veined figure it portrayed, surrounded by signs of the zodiac, and the various legends explaining the benefits of drawing blood from different sections of the body.

“That’s right!” Doc said to the Indians. “Push right up and lean yourselves all over me, so we can make as much of a mess of things as we can!” He turned irately to the oldest Indian. “Tell ’em to keep away from us! How’d you like to have me shove a lancet into you with six smut-faced weasels standing around and joggling me while I did it.”

The Indian spoke harshly to his six companions and they obediently withdrew a few feet to stand gawping at Doc.