“And now, young gentlemen,” said Cuticle, turning to the Assistant Surgeons, “while the patient is coming to, permit me to describe to you the highly-interesting operation I am about to perform.”
“Mr. Surgeon of the Fleet,” said Surgeon Bandage, “if you are about to lecture, permit me to present you with your teeth; they will make your discourse more readily understood.” And so saying, Bandage, with a bow, placed the two semicircles of ivory into Cuticle’s hands.
“Thank you, Surgeon Bandage,” said Cuticle, and slipped the ivory into its place.
“In the first place, now, young gentlemen, let me direct your attention to the excellent preparation before you. I have had it unpacked from its case, and set up here from my state-room, where it occupies the spare berth; and all this for your express benefit, young gentlemen. This skeleton I procured in person from the Hunterian department of the Royal College of Surgeons in London. It is a masterpiece of art. But we have no time to examine it now. Delicacy forbids that I should amplify at a juncture like this”—casting an almost benignant glance toward the patient, now beginning to open his eyes; “but let me point out to you upon this thigh-bone”—disengaging it from the skeleton, with a gentle twist—“the precise place where I propose to perform the operation. Here, young gentlemen, here is the place. You perceive it is very near the point of articulation with the trunk.”
“Yes,” interposed Surgeon Wedge, rising on his toes, “yes, young gentlemen, the point of articulation with the acetabulum of the os innominatum.”
“Where’s your Bell on Bones, Dick?” whispered one of the assistants to the student next him. “Wedge has been spending the whole morning over it, getting out the hard names.”
“Surgeon Wedge,” said Cuticle, looking round severely, “we will dispense with your commentaries, if you please, at present. Now, young gentlemen, you cannot but perceive, that the point of operation being so near the trunk and the vitals, it becomes an unusually beautiful one, demanding a steady hand and a true eye; and, after all, the patient may die under my hands.”
“Quick, Steward! water, water; he’s fainting again!” cried the two mess-mates.
“Don’t be alarmed for your comrade; men,” said Cuticle, turning round. “I tell you it is not an uncommon thing for the patient to betray some emotion upon these occasions—most usually manifested by swooning; it is quite natural it should be so. But we must not delay the operation. Steward, that knife—no, the next one—there, that’s it. He is coming to, I think”—feeling the top-man’s wrist. “Are you all ready, sir?”
This last observation was addressed to one of the Neversink’s assistant surgeons, a tall, lank, cadaverous young man, arrayed in a sort of shroud of white canvas, pinned about his throat, and completely enveloping his person. He was seated on a match-tub—the skeleton swinging near his head—at the foot of the table, in readiness to grasp the limb, as when a plank is being severed by a carpenter and his apprentice.