“I know there is,” replied the Doctor. “Do you think, sir, I don’t understand my profession?”
“Don’t be pettish, Morton. I don’t wish to interfere; but I am extremely anxious about poor Bracy.”
“Can’t be more so than I am, sir.”
“Tell me what you feel is wrong.”
“Bit of iron, I expect, close up to the vertebrae. The abominable missile broke up, and part remained behind.”
“Then, in the name of all that’s sensible, why don’t you extract it?”
“Because, in the name of all that’s sensible, I don’t want to see the poor fellow die of tetanus—lockjaw, as you call it.”
“You dare not extract it?”
“That’s it, sir. The piece—a mere scrap, I dare say—keeps his nerves in a horrible state of tension, but it is beyond my reach. Are you satisfied now?”
“Perfectly; but can nothing be done?”