He had to handle the makeshift tools with the utmost delicacy. Fortunately the wound was on the most convex part of the skull, where it was possible to cut a hole with a straight saw. The first incision once through the bone, he began another at right angles to it, and then a third, completing the square with the fourth. With the forceps he gently loosened the little block of bone.
It came out. Beneath it was, as he had expected, a large, dark blood clot. Partly with the forceps, and partly with his fingers, he removed this, and cleansed the surface with the utmost pains.
He was doubtful whether to reinsert the block of bone. In a hospital he would probably have resorted to a silver plate. Replacement might involve infection; it was best to take no chances. He drew the flap of skin back, and fastened it down with four stitches. He laid down the needle, washed his hands, and glanced at his audience with a triumphant and nervous smile.
“Is it successful? Will he live?” asked Morrison, almost in a whisper.
Lang glanced again at the patient’s eyeballs, felt his pulse. It was weak. The man breathed harshly; his hands were cold.
“Have you any stimulant? Brandy?”
Morrison had had the forethought to bring a bottle. Lang forced a few spoonfuls between the locked teeth. The pulse fluttered, then relapsed. Lang shrugged his shoulders.
“Will he live—become conscious?” Morrison asked again.
“No, he won’t,” Lang replied cheerfully. “I don’t think he’ll come out of the ether. Maybe he had a little too much. He was in no condition for an operation in this cold, outdoor spot. Shock was too much for him.”
“But the emeralds?” Morrison cried. “How’ll we find them?”