"Rather a character," said one of the Doctors, as he placed the sodden wool firmly over his nose and mouth.
"Yes," replied the Sister; "he said just now that the operation would be unsuccessful and that he would die!"
Drat the woman, she had spoiled his last joke!
He strove to explain. But the fumes were clutching at his senses, and he could not. The white walls of the room swam and bounced before his eyes. Rivers were pouring into his ears. Everything was grey and vibrating. He made a frantic effort to turn his thoughts towards God and home, "in case." But he failed to think of anything.
With a jerk his senses left him.
When he recovered his senses it was still dark, but he realised that he was in another room.
And in that room he stayed for nearly a fortnight before the Doctor would allow him to proceed to the Base.
As regards the paralysis, there was little or no improvement, although he thought at one time that he was succeeding in wagging his big toe. The Doctor would come in and say with mock petulance, "Surely you can move that finger now. Pull yourself together! Make an effort!"
He used to make tremendous efforts. Even his left hand used to twitch with the effort of trying to move the right.