from the end of Smith's nose, perhaps not much bigger than a silver quarter, but it must have looked the size of a wagon-wheel to Zeb as he ran with it in his hand to the doctor's office. There he presented it, holding hard to the end of his nose to check the flow of blood, with a thick request that it be immediately attached to its proper surroundings.
The doctor was a short man with a black beard, which was red at times for half an inch next his skin, as business might press, or the coloring matter be slow about reaching him from Kansas City. He was a saw-and-calomel survival of the Civil War, a vituperative man, full of strange and disquieting oaths. He looked on Smith, his bleeding nose, his extended fragment, and cursed him by all the gods in his uncommon vocabulary.
"It's a pity he didn't cut your dam' head off, you old soak! No, I won't sew it on! I won't touch you, you old skunk!"
Smith implored his compassion, still offering the little piece of red nose-end, fiery yet, though drained of blood. The doctor cursed him again, and turned from him. Smith stood looking at the bit of flesh in his hand, breathing through his mouth with a loud noise. "Can't you put it back, doc? My looks'll be ruined!" he said.
With that the swearing doctor turned to him
