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“Fancy!”

CHAPTER IV
Postoperative
    Thursday, the eleventh. Late afternoon.
    Sir John waited in the theatre for his patient.
    The matron, Jane and Nurse Banks came in with Thoms. They stood near the table, a group of robed and expressionless automata. They were silent. The sound of wheels. A trolley appeared with Dr. Roberts and the special nurse walking behind it. Dr. Roberts held the anæsthetic mask over the patient’s face. On the trolley lay the figure of the Home Secretary. As they lifted it on the table the head spoke suddenly and inconsequently.
    “Not to-day, not to-day, not to-day, damn the bloody thing,” it said very rapidly.
    The special nurse went away.
    The reek of ether rose up like incense round the table. Dr. Roberts wheeled forward his anæsthetising apparatus, an object that, with its cylinders of compressed gases carried in an iron framework, resembled a gigantic cruet. A low screen was fixed across the patient’s chest to shut off the anæsthetist. Thoms looked at the patient curiously.
    “He’s a striking-looking chap, isn’t he?” he remarked lightly. “Curious head. What do you make of it, Roberts? You’re a bit of a dog at that sort of thing, aren’t you? Read your book the other day. There’s insanity somewhere in the racial makeup here, isn’t there? Wasn’t his old man bats?”
    Roberts looked scandalised.
    “That is so,” he said stiffly, “but one would hardly expect to find evidence of racial insanity clearly denned in the facial structure, Mr. Thoms.”
    The sister arranged the sterile coverings over the abdomen. With the head screened, the patient was no longer an individual. A subject for operation lay on the table — that was all.
    Sir John took up a scalpel and made the first incision.
    “Peritonitis, all right,” said Thoms presently.
    “Hull-lo!” he added a little later. “Ruptured abscess. He’s made a job of it.”
    “Accounts for the attacks of pain,” Phillips grunted.
    “Of course, sir. Wonder he kept going so long— look there.”
    “Nasty mess,” said Phillips. “Good God, matron, are you deaf! I said forceps.”
    Sister Marigold bridled slightly and gave a genteel cough. There was silence for some time. Sir John’s fingers worked, nervously, inquisitively, and with a kind of delicate assurance.
    “The pulse is weak, Sir John,” said Roberts suddenly.
    “Oh? Look at this, Thoms.”
    “I don’t like this pulse.”
    “What’s the matter, Roberts? Pulse?”
    “Yes. It’s rather weak. I don’t like his looks. Get me an injection of camphor, will you, nurse?”
    Nurse Banks filled the second small hypodermic syringe and brought it to him.
    “Give it, nurse, at once, please.”
    She did so.
    “Serum,” grunted Phillips.
    “Serum, Nurse Harden,” murmured the sister.
    Jane crossed to the table of apparatus. There was a little delay.
    “Well — well, where is it?” asked Phillips impatiently.
    “Nurse!” called Thoms angrily. “What are you doing?”
    “I’m sorry — but— ”
    “It’s the large syringe,” said Nurse Banks.
    “Very well,” said Jane faintly.
    She bent over the table.
    Phillips finished sewing up the incision.
    “Nurse,” repeated Thoms, “
will
you bring me that syringe! What’s the matter with you?”
    An agitated drop appeared on the end of his nose. Sister Marigold cast an expert glance at it and wiped it off with a piece of gauze.
    Jane came back uncertainly, holding the tray. Phillips straightened his back and stood looking at the wound. Thoms put on the dressing and then gave the injection.
    “Well,” he said, “that’s that. Very nasty case. I suppose he’s neglected it.”
    “I believe so,” answered Phillips slowly. “I saw him the other evening and I had no idea he was ill — no idea of it.”
    “How’s the condition now, Roberts?” asked Thoms.
    “Not too brilliant.”
    “Well — take him to bed,” said Phillips.
    “And take that tray away,” added Thoms irritably to Jane