We carried him into the waiting-room, laid him on the cushions there, and sent hot-foot for the doctor.
He was a good country practitioner, and, I suppose, knew the ordinary routine of his work quite well. He fussed about, hummed and hawed a lot.
"Yes, yes," he said, as if he were trying to persuade himself. "Shock, you know. He'll be better presently. Lucky, though, that he had no arms."
I noticed then, for the first time, that the sleeves of the coat had been shorn away.
"Doctor," I said, "how is he? Surely, if he isn't hurt he would not look like that. What exactly do you mean by shock?"
"Hum—er," he hesitated, and applied his stethoscope to Masters' heart again.
"The heart is very weak," he said at length. "Very weak. He's always very anæmic, I suppose?"
"No," I answered. "He's anything but that. He's——Good Lord, he's bleeding to death! Put ligatures on his arms. Put ligatures on his arms."
"Please keep quiet, Mr. Riverston," the doctor said. "It must have been a dreadful experience for you, and you are naturally very upset."
I raved and cursed at him. I think I should have struck him, but the others held me. They said they would take me away if I did not keep quiet.