'How's Sturk, Sir?' repeated the silver spectacles, a little sternly.
'Well, Sir, he's not _dead_; but, by your leave, had we not better go
into the parlour, eh?--'tis a little chill, and, as I said, 'tis not all
told in a moment--he's not dead, though, that's the sum of it--_you_
first, pray proceed, gentlemen.'
Dangerfield grimly took him at his word; but the polite major got up a
little ceremonious tussle with Toole in the hall. However, it was no
more than a matter of half-a-dozen bows and waves of the hand, and
'after you, Sir;' and Toole entered, and after a general salutation in
the style of Doctor Pell, he established himself upon the hearth-stone,
with his back to the fire, as a legitimate oracle.
Toole was learned, as he loved to be among the laity on such occasions,
and was in no undue haste to bring his narrative to a close. But the
gist of the matter was this--Sturk was labouring under concussion of the
brain, and two terrific fractures of the skull--so long, and lying so
near together, that he and Doctor Pell instantly saw 'twould be
impracticable to apply the trepan, in fact that 'twould be certain and
instantaneous death.
Pages:
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509