'I am sorry about your shoulder,' he said at last. 'Let me send
for the doctor.'
'Not in the least,' said I. 'It is a trifle. I am quite used to
it. It does not trouble me in the smallest. At any rate, I don't
believe in doctors.'
'All right,' said he, and sat and smoked a good while in a silence
which I would have given anything to break. 'Well,' he began
presently, 'I believe there is nothing left for me to learn. I
presume I may say that I know all.'
'About what?' said I boldly.
'About Goguelat,' said he.
'I beg your pardon. I cannot conceive,' said I.
'Oh,' says the major, 'the man fell in a duel, and by your hand! I
am not an infant.'
'By no means,' said I. 'But you seem to me to be a good deal of a
theorist.'
'Shall we test it?' he asked. 'The doctor is close by. If there
is not an open wound on your shoulder, I am wrong. If there is--'
He waved his hand. 'But I advise you to think twice. There is a
deuce of a nasty drawback to the experiment--that what might have
remained private between us two becomes public property.'
'Oh, well!' said I, with a laugh, 'anything rather than a doctor!
I cannot bear the breed.'
His last words had a good deal relieved me, but I was still far
from comfortable.
Major Chevenix smoked awhile, looking now at his cigar ash, now at
me.
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