“When you have all finished, I’ll tell you where he’s hurt,” said Reggie incisively.
“Ah, yes, you are a surgeon,” Spoleto cried. “Stand aside, stand aside. The gentleman is a surgeon. Tell me, is he dead?” His Highness had begun to groan.
“Don’t be futile,” said Reggie, and knelt and began to straighten out the heap. The process caused His Highness anguish. “Yes. He can’t walk. We must get him to bed to examine him.”
It was an elaborate process and punctuated with lamentations . . . when at last His Highness lay stripped in bed and groaning faintly, “My aunt, what a patient!” Reggie grimaced to himself.
“I think I am everywhere a bruise, Mr. Fortune,” the Prince groaned. “That scoundrel Spoleto!”
“That won’t do, sir. I’m sure he meant nothing,” said Reggie, with admirable magnanimity. “The—the yacht pitched. Now about the elbow.” He began handling it skilfully.
“Ah! Yes. Yes, it is certainly the elbow that is most painful. But my knee also gives me great pain. And my head aches violently.”
“The knee. Yes. The knee is badly bruised. There may be—— Ah, well, I can make you more comfortable for the time, sir. But it is my duty to tell you frankly I am anxious about the arm. I must have that elbow X-rayed at once. I am afraid there’s a fracture. A small operation may be necessary. Just a screw in, you know.”
“A screw in my elbow!” the Prince screamed.
“I suppose you don’t wish to lose your arm,” Reggie said sternly.