Dad hit her between the ears with his fist, and got down and ran back.
"The boy'll be dead, Anderson," he cried, rushing inside again.
"Come on then," Anderson said, "we'll take off his finger." Joe was looking drowsy.

But, when Anderson took hold of him and placed the wounded finger on a block, and Dad faced him with the hammer and a blunt, rusty old chisel, he livened up.
"No, Dad, NO!" he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man kangaroo.

Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal's assistance held his finger on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and brought the hammer down.

It did n't sever the finger--it only scraped the nail off--but it did make Joe buck.

He struggled desperately and got away.
Anderson could n't run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run like a greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots off, Joe had disappeared in the corn.
"Quick!" Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient.