Thus far Sam was perfectly self-possessed. He went about his preparations with an air that imposed upon the patient. But the difficulty was to come.
Things which look easy often are found difficult when attempted. When Sam began to wield the doctor's instruments he did so awkwardly. He lacked that delicacy of touch which can only be acquired by practice, and the result was tragical. The knife slipped, inflicting a deep gash, and causing a quick flow of blood.
"Oh, murder, I'm kilt!" exclaimed the terrified patient, bounding to his feet, and rushing frantically round the room. "I'm bladin' to death."
Sam was almost equally frightened. He stood, with the knife in his hand, panic-stricken.
"I'll have you up for murder, I will!" shouted Mr. Dennis O'Brien, clutching the wounded member. "Oh, why did I ever come to a boy doctor? Oh, whirra, whirra!"
"I didn't mean to do it," said Sam, frightened.
"You'll be hanged for killin' me, bad 'cess to you. Go for a doctor, quick."
Almost out of his wits Sam was about to obey, when as he opened the door he confronted his employer. Under ordinary circumstances he would have been sorry to have him come in so soon. Now he was glad.
"What's the meaning of all this?" asked Dr. Graham, surveying with astonishment the Irishman prancing around the office, and Sam's scared face.
"He's kilt me, doctor," said Dennis, groaning.