Wilson found himself in a corridor strong with the fumes of ether and carbolic acid.
“See here,” he expostulated, “I didn’t want to come here. I–––where’s the driver?”
“He went off as soon as you got out.”
“But where–––”
“Come on. This is the City Hospital and you’re hurt. The quicker you get that scalp of yours sewed up the better.”
For a few steps Wilson walked along submissively, his brain still confused. The thought of her came once again, and he struggled free from the detaining arm 61 and turned upon the attendant who was leading him to the accident room.
“I’m going back,” he declared. “This is some conspiracy against the girl. I’ll find out what it is––and I’ll–––”
“The sooner you get that scalp fixed,” interrupted the attendant, “the sooner you’ll find the girl.”
The details of the next hour were blurred to him. He remembered the arrival of the brisk young surgeon, remembered his irritated greeting at sight of him––“Another drunken row, I suppose”––and the sharp fight he put up against taking ether. He had but one thought in mind––he must not lose consciousness, for he must get back to the girl. So he fought until two strong men came in and sat one on his chest and one on his knees. When he came out of this he was nicely tucked in bed. They told him that probably he must stay there three or four days––there was danger of the wound growing septic.
Wilson stared at the pretty nurse a moment and then asked, “I beg your pardon––how long did you say?”