“Here, you, Dean,” he said, upon one of these occasions, “slip that silk handkerchief from your neck, twist it a little, and now tie it round his arm just above the elbow. That’s right—no, no, don’t play with it—tie it as tightly as you can—never mind hurting him. I want to stop the circulation.”
He placed his lips to the wound again and drew hard; then speaking once more—
“Harder. Now, you, Sir James; you are stronger. Tighten the ligature as much as you can. You, Dean, put your hand in my breast-pocket—pocket-book. Open it and take out a lancet.”
“There isn’t one here, sir.”
“Bah! No; I remember. Get out your knife, my boy.”
“There’s a lancet in that, sir, you know, and a corkscrew, and tweezers too. Here’s the lancet, sir;” and the boy drew out the little tortoiseshell instrument slipped into the handle of the handsome knife which his uncle had presented him with before the start.
“Now, then, Mark; I am going to operate.”
“Very well, sir,” said Mark, calmly enough. “You had better take the finger off close down to the joint, for fear the poison has got as far as that.”
The doctor smiled.
“Is it absolutely necessary?” said Sir James anxiously.