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His right leg was uncovered, and supported on a board hung from the ceiling. Its flesh was like that of a chicken badly carved-white, flabby, and in tatters. He thought I was a surgeon, and spoke to me pleadingly: "I guess you can save that leg, sir. It's doing fine. I should hate to lose it." I murmured something about a chance for it, and the M. O. broke in cheerfully.
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