He went at his work resolutely, but blunderingly; he spoiled a plank and all but clogged the machine.

His temper got clean away from him, and he shook with a rage hard to restrain from venting itself against the inanimate objects whose possessing devils he could hear jeering at him through the roar of the machinery.
"Steady! Steady!" warned good-natured Rollins.

"You'll drop a hand under that knife." The words had just reached Arthur when he gave a sharp cry.

With a cut as clean as the edge that made it, off came the little finger of his left hand, and he was staring at it as it lay upon the bed of the planer, twitching, seeming to breathe as its blood pulsed out, while the blood spurted from his maimed hand.

In an instant Lorry Tague had the machine still.
"A bucket of clean water," he yelled to the man at the next planer.
He grabbed dazed Arthur's hand, and pressed hard with his powerful thumb and forefinger upon the edges of the wound.
"A doctor!" he shouted at the men crowding round.
Arthur did not realize what had happened until he found himself forced to his knees, his hand submerged in the ice-cold water, Lorry still holding shut the severed veins and arteries.
"Another bucket of water, you, Bill," cried Lorry.
When it came he had Bill Johnstone throw the severed finger into it.