“Lungs react,” muttered Kennedy, “but the heart doesn't. I must increase the voltage.”
Again he applied the electrodes.
The face seemed a different shade of blue, I thought.
“Good God, Kennedy,” I exclaimed, “do you suppose the effect of that mescal on me hasn't worn off yet? Blue, blue everything blue is playing pranks before my eyes. Tell me, is the blue of that face—his face—is it changing? Do you see it, or do I imagine it?”
“Blood asphyxiated,” was the disjointed reply. “The oxygen is clearing it.”
“But, Kennedy,” I persisted; “his face was dark blue, black a minute ago. The most astonishing change has taken place. Its colour is almost natural now. Do I imagine it or is it real?”
Kennedy was so absorbed in his work that he made no reply at all. He heard nothing, nothing save the slow, forced inspiration and expiration of air as he deftly and quickly manipulated the electrodes.
“Doctor,” he cried at length, “tell me what is going on in that heart.”
The young surgeon bent his head and placed his ear on the cold breast. As he raised his eyes and they chanced to rest on Kennedy's hands, holding the electrodes dangling idly in the air, I think I never saw a greater look of astonishment on a human face. “It—is—almost—natural,” he gasped.
“With great care and a milk diet for a few days Guerrero will live,” said Kennedy quietly. “It is natural.”