“What do you mean by this, Craggs?” said the Viscount, trembling with passion. “Who have you brought me? What beggar have you picked off the highway? Or is he the travelling fool of the district?”
But the anger that supplied strength hitherto now failed to impart energy, and he sank back wasted and exhausted. The Corporal bent over him, and spoke something in a low whisper, but whether the words were heard or not, the sick man now lay still, breathing heavily.
“Can you do nothing for him?” asked Craggs, peevishly—“nothing but anger him?”
“To be sure I can if you let me,” said Billy, producing a very ancient lancet-case of boxwood tipped with ivory. “I'll just take a dash of blood from the temporal artery, to relieve the cerebrum, and then we'll put cowld on his head, and keep him quiet.”
And with a promptitude that showed at least self-confidence, he proceeded to accomplish the operation, every step of which he effected skilfully and well.
“There, now,” said he, feeling the pulse, as the blood continued to flow freely, “the circulation is relieved at once; it's the same as opening a sluice in a mill-dam. He 's better already.”
“He looks easier,” said Craggs.
“Ay, and he feels it,” continued Billy. “Just notice the respiratory organs, and see how easy the intercostials is doing their work now. Bring me a bowl of clean water, some vinegar, and any ould rags you have.”
Craggs obeyed, but not without a sneer at the direction.
“All over the head,” said Billy; “all over it,—back and front,—and with the blessing of the Virgin, I'll have that hair off of him if he is n't cooler towards evening.”