“Well, gentlemen,” said I, “you have mustered in great strength; why is this?”
My ordinary surgeon replied that he wished to have the opinion of the other two before proceeding to amputation, and they would require to look at the wound.
The dressing was lifted and gangrene was declared to be undoubtedly present, and execution was ordered that evening. The butchers gave me the news with radiant faces, and assured me I need not be afraid as the operation would certainly prove efficacious.
“Gentlemen,” I replied, “you seem to have a great many solid scientific reasons for cutting off my hand; but one thing you have not got, and that is my consent. My hand is my own, and I am going to keep it.”
“Sir, it is certainly gangrened; by to-morrow the arm will begin to mortify, and then you will have to lose your arm.”
“Very good; if that prove so you shall cut off my arm, but I happen to know something of gangrene, and there is none about me.”
“You cannot know as much about it as we do.”
“Possibly; but as far as I can make out, you know nothing at all.”
“That’s rather a strong expression.”
“I don’t care whether it be strong or weak; you can go now.”