"What a place this is!" cried the man who had been working next to Gosławski—"no doctor, no bone-setter!... Where is Schmidt? Run for Schmidt!"
Some ran for Schmidt. Meanwhile one of the old blacksmiths showed more presence of mind than the others, knelt down, and compressed the arm above the elbow with his hands. The blood began to flow more slowly. It was a terrible injury; part of the arm and two fingers were left, the rest had been torn away. At last, after a quarter of an hour, Schmidt, who took the doctor's place in the factory, appeared. He was just as terrified as the rest, and bandaged the wounded arm with rags, which instantly became soaked with blood. He ordered the men to carry Gosławski home. They laid him on some boards; two men carried him, two supported his head, the rest crowded round, and they all moved away in a body.
There was no one in the offices, and no light showed in Adler's house. The dogs, scenting blood, began to howl; the night watchman took off his cap and looked with pale face after the procession moving along the highroad, which was flooded by the moonlight.
A factory hand appeared at an open window in his shirt-sleeves, and called out:
"Hallo! What's the matter?"
"Gosławski has had his hand torn off!"
The wounded man uttered low groans. Suddenly the clatter of hoofs was heard, and a carriage with a pair of greys and a coachman in livery appeared on the highroad. Ferdinand, who was returning from a drinking bout, was lolling inside.
"Out of the way!" shouted the coachman.
"Out of the way yourself! We are carrying a wounded man!"
The procession drew near to the carriage. Ferdinand Adler roused himself, looked out of the carriage, and asked: