“Yes,” said Mr Rimmer, “imbedded in the muscles of his shoulder. Poor fellow, best done while he’s fainting.”
It was rough surgery, but right. Taking hold of the broken arrow shaft, of which about three inches stood up from the wound, which was just marked by a few drops of blood, Mr Rimmer found that it was held firmly, and resisted all efforts to dislodge it without violence, so judging that the head was barbed, and that tearing would be dangerous, he at once made a bold cut down into the flesh, parallel with the flat of the arrow head, and then pressing it gently up and down, he drew the missile forth. He followed this up by carefully washing out the wound with clean water, and finally, before bandaging, poured in some ammonia.
Just as he gave the final touches to the bandage, Panton came to, and looked wildly round, his eyes resting at last upon the mate’s.
“You have taken out the arrow?” he asked.
“Yes, and made a good job of you, sir,” said the mate, cheerily. “I didn’t think I was such a surgeon.”
Panton grasped his arm, and whispered hoarsely,—
“Tell me the truth. That was a poisoned arrow, was it not?”
“How should I know?” said the mate, roughly. “It was an arrow; I’ve taken it out, bathed the wound, and what you have to do, is to lie still, and not worry yourself into a fever by fancying all kinds of horrors.”
“But these men poison their arrows, do they not?”
“People say so,” said the mate, bluffly, “but it doesn’t follow that they do. Now, then, I’ve got to attend to Mr Lane. You’ve had your turn.”