CHAPTER XXXII
OPERATION
The news came as a distinct shock to him. He had not even entertained the possibility of undergoing an operation. Years ago he had had his adenoids removed, and the memory was by no means pleasant. All along he had told himself he would recover in time—that was all he wanted. To have an operation was, he thought, to run another and unnecessary risk.
Later in the evening the Sister came in with a large phial, and injected the contents into his arm.
"Morphine," she explained.
In a moment or so he felt that he did not care what happened. The morphine made him gloriously drunk.
"Sister," he confided. "I'm drunk. It isn't fair to go and kill a fellow when he's drunk, you know. It isn't playing the game. You ought to suspend hostilities till I'm sober!"
He felt ridiculously proud of himself for these inanities.
"I know you," he strutted with laughter. "After it's all over, you'll write home to my people and say, 'The operation was successfully performed, but the patient died soon afterwards!'"
By this time they had stripped him of all but his shirt.