CHAPTER XXVII
A Daring Operation
It all happened in such a brief space, and so unexpectedly, that Captain M'Bride and Webb had but a hazy notion of what had taken place.
A crowd had gathered quickly, but by the time Laddie was pulled off the prostrate Greek the would-be assassin was dead.
"Narrow squeak, by Jove!" remarked Captain M'Bride. "The beggar tried to knife you, Osborne. Hallo, what's happened to the dog?"
"What's happened to the dog?" repeated Osborne in a voice that hardly sounded like his own. "Laddie, boy, what has the brute done to you?"
"He's broken his jaw," declared Webb.
"Yes, a double fracture," added a young officer in the uniform of the Veterinary Corps. "You ought to have him shot, sir, and put him out of his misery."
Poor Laddie seemed the least concerned of any of the group. His jaw had dropped, and he presented a rather pathetic figure, with his wide-open eyes fixed upon his master.
Osborne leant heavily upon his chum's shoulder. "Tom," he whispered. "Don't have him shot if it can be possibly avoided. I—I——"
Then, with a stifled groan, he collapsed insensible at the feet of the astonished and horrified Sub-lieutenant.
A stretcher was quickly upon the scene, and, attended by a couple of surgeons, Osborne was removed to the Naval Sick Quarters. Examination revealed the presence of a deep knife-thrust that had narrowly missed the left lung.
"It's a case of revenge, without doubt," declared the senior medical officer to Captain M'Bride. "Mr. Osborne was the principal witness against the spy Hymettus, and one of the Greek's relatives or associates has tried the vendetta touch. Dangerous? Yes; it's no use mincing matters. Even if complications do not ensue—and these Greeks are not at all particular as to the antiseptic condition of their knives—Osborne will have a hard struggle for his life. One thing his appearance tells me: that he is a clean-living fellow, and that's greatly in his favour. By all means look in this evening, and I'll tell you how he is progressing."
Throughout the rest of the day Osborne lay unconscious. Towards night he began to speak, wildly and disjointedly. The nurse on duty noticed that in the midst of his incoherence he seemed to be imploring someone to save Laddie from being shot.
"That's his pet dog," said the principal medical officer when the sister reported the circumstance. "I've heard all about it from Captain M'Bride. He seemed devotedly attached to the animal, and, I believe, if the dog has to be destroyed, it seems likely that Mr. Osborne's chances will be greatly diminished. It's certainly remarkable, but the fact remains. If, when he recovers consciousness, he can be convinced that the dog is alive, half the battle will be won."
That night the Lieutenant was in the throes of fever, battling, although unconscious, with the grim Angel of Death.
* * * * * *
Sub-lieutenant Webb sat in the verandah of his quarters, nervously handling his heavy Service revolver. Not once, but many times, he had borne himself manfully in tight corners. He had been cheek by jowl with death without flinching. But now he was confronted with a problem that taxed his resolution almost to the uttermost.
With Osborne's words ringing in his ears he sat and fumbled irresolutely with the loaded weapon. Such a lot depended upon the next few moments, when a veterinary officer would arrive and give his verdict upon Laddie. If the dog's case were considered hopeless, Webb would be the executioner of his chum's pet. Osborne, he knew, would wish it. And yet, if anything could be done——
A shadow fell athwart the verandah.
Webb looked up enquiringly. A young fellow in military uniform stood without.
"Hallo!" remarked the stranger with a slight drawl. "I say, put that pistol away, you won't need it. You don't seem to remember me?"
"I can't," replied Webb.
"I was in that little affair when your chum was stabbed," continued the army officer. "It was I who suggested the dog should be shot—but I've changed my opinion. You and I, Mr. Webb, are going to save that animal—and we start at once."
"You think he's a chance?" enquired Tom hopefully.
"It's a pure experiment on my part," continued the veterinary officer. "I have hopes that it will succeed. It depends largely upon the dog. Compound fracture of an animal's jaw is considered 'na poo'. You see it takes eighteen days for the bones to set, and in that time the brute's starved to death. How long are you here?"
"About a month, I expect, Mr.——?"
"Dixon, my name. A month? Plenty of time on your hands? Good. Same here. We're having quite a slack after a most unholy rush. Hope it'll last. If not, you'll have to continue the treatment single-handed."
"I say, it's awfully good of you," began Webb.
"Not at all," expostulated Dixon. "I saw how concerned Osborne was. A fellow who can conceal his own injuries in his anxiety for his pet is a pal worth having. He's some grit, has Osborne. Where's the dog?"
"In there," replied the Sub, indicating his private room.
The two men entered. Laddie was lying on a folded blanket, with his injured jaw supported by his paw.
"He does not seem in much pain," remarked Webb.
"No, it's too early. The nervous system of a dumb animal is somewhat different to ours. When mortification sets in—but we mustn't give that a chance," said Dixon. "I've had a dental training, you know, and that's why I think I'll be able to fix it up all right. The first job is to take an impression. Steady his head, will you?"
Gently but firmly Dixon pressed a lump of soft wax against the inside of Laddie's jaw. The dog submitted without protest. Instinctively he realized that what was being done was for his good.
"Ripping fine impression!" declared the operator, regarding the wax model with professional satisfaction. "That'll do for the present. I'll nip off to the work-room and make a plate."
Before long, Dixon returned with a vulcanite plate that exactly fitted the inside of the patient's jaw. Then the under side of the dog's mouth was encased in plaster of Paris, the whole being secured with india-rubber straps.
"That'll do," remarked the veterinary officer. "Feed him with beef-tea and arrowroot. I'll be round early to-morrow."
The grave report concerning Osborne which reached Webb that night urged the Sub to even greater efforts. He would willingly give up his rest in order to save Laddie, knowing that Osborne's life depended largely upon the success of the daring experiment.
Next morning Dixon looked grave. "H'm!" he remarked. "That plate's cracked. Part of the dog's jaw has dropped an eighth of an inch."
"Is it a failure?" asked Webb anxiously.
"Never say die till you're dead," said the other. "Failure? Not if I know it. I'll make something that won't crack."
He was as good as his word, for within an hour he was back with a second plate, made, this time, out of hard dental alloy.
Once more Laddie's jaw was set, and from that time things went well. Other vets., hearing of the weird operation, came to visit the canine patient, and all expressed their opinion that Dixon would win through with his case.
Unremittingly Webb attended to his part of the contract, keeping Laddie well supplied with nourishing liquids. One morning—it was the seventh day of Osborne's illness—Captain M'Bride came to Webb's quarters.
"I've just seen the principal medical officer," he announced, hardly able to conceal the state of his mind. "Osborne recovered consciousness at four this morning. His first enquiry was whether Laddie were alive; and, of course, he could be truthfully informed that he was, and that the animal was well on the road to recovery. Osborne is, I believe, now out of danger. We'll be able to see him in another ten days, I hope, and bring Laddie restored to health as tangible evidence. And, by the by, here's something of a personal nature that will interest you—a copy of a part of to-day's Orders."
"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Webb, the wind completely shaken out of his sails. "What's that for?"
"Bravery and discretion under circumstances of great peril," replied Captain M'Bride. "You've won it fairly, Webb. I congratulate you."
For Webb, Sub-lieutenant no longer, had been specially promoted to Lieutenant and awarded the D.S.O. for services in connection with the rescue of the crew of the mined Portchester Castle.
"And Osborne—and Haynes?" asked Webb. "They did quite as much as I."
Captain M'Bride shrugged his shoulders.
"I cannot offer any opinion," he replied. "All I know is that they were mentioned in my dispatch. Perhaps recognition in their case will come later."
On the seventeenth day following Laddie's operation, the plate and the plaster of Paris were removed. To everyone's satisfaction the operation was perfectly successful.
"Good old boy!" exclaimed Webb. "Now we'll take you to your master."
Osborne was reported to be fit to receive visitors that afternoon. A regular crowd of officers expressed their intention of paying congratulatory calls, but at the suggestion of the surgeon the number was limited to three—Captain M'Bride, and the two men who had been chiefly instrumental in Laddie's recovery, Webb and Dixon.
"I think, in view of previous experience, it would be as well to walk in the centre of the street," said Captain M'Bride, as the trio made their way along the lane where Osborne had been treacherously struck down.
"Rather, sir!" agreed Webb; then—"Oh, dash it all! Now what's going to happen?"
For a large native cur, emerging from a squalid hovel, had suddenly hurled himself upon the unsuspecting Laddie, and in an instant both dogs were engaged in a terrific combat.