"He says the operator had jotted down the original message he had sent, and he tried to repeat it as best he could. Of course all that last stuff no one could understand was sent when he was semi-conscious."
Eric winced as the other touched his shoulder.
"Get ready now," the surgeon said, "I'm going to snap that bone back into place. Ready?"
"Go ahead," the boy answered through set teeth.
The surgeon gave a quick sharp twist and there was a click as the shoulder went back.
"That's going to be a bit sore for a while," he said, "but you ought to be mighty thankful you put it out of joint."
"Why?"
"You'd have broken something instead, if it hadn't slipped," was the reply; "you must have hit that door an awful welt, for you're bruised on that side from the shoulder down. Just black and blue with a few touches of reddish purple. You're an impressionist sketch on the bruise line, I tell you! But there's nothing serious there. Using your carcass for a battering ram is apt to make a few contusions, and you've done well to get off so easily."
"I had to get into that deck-house. I wanted to be sure no one was there."
"It took more than wanting," the surgeon said, "you must have been just about crazy. A man's got to be nearly in the state of a maniac before he'll hurl himself against an iron door like that without thinking of the consequences to himself. You were out of your head with pain, Swift, the way it looks to me, you'd never have tried it in your sober senses."