Murchison felt Baxter’s pulse, and frowned.
“We must waste no time,” he remarked, setting back his shoulders.
“The pupil reflex has gone.”
“Keep him as lightly under as you can.”
There was the glimmer of a knife, and a long streaking of the skin with red. Murchison worked rapidly, spreading the lips of the wound with the fingers of his left hand while he plied the knife. The patient’s stertorous breathing seemed to fill the room. Murchison swabbed the wound briskly, and worked on with grim and quiet patience.
Soon half a dozen artery forceps were dangling about the wound. Murchison was bending over the farmer, insinuating his hand into the abdominal cavity. Inglis glanced at him with a worried air.
“Can you feel anything, sir?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t like the pulse.”
“We must risk it; watch the breathing.”