"Well, I really never heard of a man dying under such circumstances."
"I can do that, doctor."
"If you can you will save him, of course, and we will give him to you."
"But, doctor, you must do all the surgery. I must not give him pain; cannot see that wound."
"Oh, certainly, we will do everything in our power; but he is yours, for we have no hope of saving him."
"Another thing, doctor; you will have him brought to Ward Four."
He gave the order at once, adding: "Put him to the right of Howard"—a young Philadelphian with a thigh stump, who was likely to die of hemorrhage, and whose jerking nerves I could soothe and quiet better than any one else.
By this arrangement the man minus a thigh bone was placed in the center of my field of labor, and under the care of Dr. Kelly; but full ten days after this arrangement was made, he came with a rueful face and said:
"We have consulted the Surgeon-General, Medical Inspector, and a dozen other surgeons outside the hospital, and they all agree that there is no hope for Kendall. The surgeons here have commissioned me to tell you, for we think you ought to know. We all appreciate what you are doing, and think you will save all your other men if you live, but you cannot stand this strain long. You do not know it; but there is a limit to your powers of endurance, and you are breaking. You certainly will die if you keep on as you have been going, and it is not worth your while to kill yourself for Kendall, for you cannot save him."
"What is the reason he cannot be saved?"