The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
wrong. My fear was that Jack would collapse 
from sheer loss of blood and exhaustion, and for 
this reason I plied him with the only stimulant 
I had—brandy. The doctor usually lived at 
the eighty-mile peg, away up the line, in the 
hills. It was odds against his being about, as he 
did not come to Fontesvilla once a month unless 
specially sent for, but as luck would have it, he 
had arrived that afternoon, as it was a Sunday. 
The long and the short of it was that he operated 
on the leg, but he had to do so more than once, 
as the bone was splintered right up to the knee, 
Jack unfortunately succumbing from the shock. 
I cannot imagine what I should have done had 
not the doctor been there. It would have taken 
some hours to have brought him to Fontesvilla, 
even had he been at home and not on a visit to 
some patient. I might have been obliged to 
take the man’s leg off myself. I had the neces- 
sary antiseptics and bandages, and would, fail- 
ing every other means of saving his life, have 
attempted the task of amputation. I had on 
that short trip back to the township decided 
that I would take the leg off at the knee if I had 
been compelled to try. For I was certain that 
a pinch such as that caused by the hawser must — 
have smashed the leg-bone into splinters. 
Thank goodness! I had not to attempt the task, 
but it might very easily have been otherwise. 
As I have previously said, the line ended on 
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