"Just take this while I open the blade," and he handed the bottle back.
"The handle will serve," said Hawke.
"The blade will do it cleaner."
Hawke took the bottle back while Gordon opened the knife. It was of a strong and heavy make, with a long, powerful blade. Gordon ran his thumb along the edge and found it sharp and even.
"Now if you will hold the bottle out," he said, "I will operate. Not that way! We shall spill it all;" and he readjusted the bottle in Hawke's hands, settling the base in his upturned palms, with the cork pointing towards himself.
"That's right," he said, and struck the neck on the side nearest to Hawke, slipped the blade on the glass, and drove it with all his force down into his left arm where it showed white below his sleeve.
The bottle crashed on the ground.
Hawke reeled against the rock wall behind him, clutching the injured wrist with his disengaged hand.
"God!" he shrieked. "It's an artery."
Gordon could see the blood spurting in quick jets, and said, quietly--