The Challenge of Love. Victorian Romance Novel
coat was striding to and fro from corner to corner, a splash of blood over his left temple, and his left cheek brown with mud. His riding breeches were ripped along one thigh and soaked with mud and slime. The man was like a great beast in pain. He swore—in gusts—as he stamped to and fro, holding his left arm folded across his chest, the right hand under the left elbow. A younger man stood leaning against the bookcase, looking on rather helplessly, and pulling the joints of his brown whiskers.
Dr. Threadgold bustled in with John Wolfe at his heels.
“Come, come, bless my soul! what’s all this about?”
The big man turned like an angry bull.
“Matter? Shut that door. I don’t want to have the whole house hear me swearing. Swear, confound it, I must.”
“My dear Sir George—swear.”
“The devil take that new hunter of mine. I’ll have the beast shot to-morrow. Played me a dirty trick. What!”
The young man by the bookcase emitted sympathetic language through a cloud of hair. His nose and eyes looked like the beak and eyes of a bird all puffed up with feathers.
“Ged, sir, never saw a beast refuse more scurvily. I nearly rode over you. Why——”
“Look here, Threadgold—man, something’s pretty well messed up. The beast refused at a big ditch, and banged me over his head into an oak stub. We were down Bordon way, ten devilish miles. Thought it would be quicker to drive straight here in Ruston’s gig. Confound it—this shoulder kicks like an old duck-gun!”
Threadgold took off his spectacles, wiped them with a silk handkerchief, and replaced them with an air of “now—for business.”
“Please sit down, Sir George. You say you fell on your shoulder. That’s right, Mr. Wolfe, you might light that other gas jet. Now, sir. I’m afraid we shall have to have your coat off.”
Threadgold made little, soothing gestures with his hands.
“Coat off? Of course. But how the——”
“I am afraid, Sir George, we shall have to sacrifice the coat.”
“Confound the coat, cut it into ribbons.”
“Mr. Wolfe, sir, you will find a pair of scissors in that drawer. What?”
He found Wolfe standing at his elbow with a sharp-bladed knife.
“Shall I slit the sleeve for you?”
“Please do so, sir.”
Wolfe went to work, and peeled the red coat from the injured man by slitting it along the seams. He was very dexterous and very gentle. Sir George watched Wolfe’s hands, keeping his jaw set for the moment when the surgeon should hurt him. But Wolfe had the coat off without causing him a pang.
“By jove, that was smart!”
Mr. Ruston of the hairy face chimed in with “Ged, it was, sir.”
Wolfe threw the coat aside, slit the baronet’s waistcoat across the shoulder, unbuttoned it, handed it to Mr. Ruston, saying, “There’s a watch there, I think.” Then he dissected away the sleeve of Sir George’s shirt, and laid bare the bruised and swollen shoulder.
Threadgold, who had grown rather fidgety, stepped forward, and reassumed his authority.
“Thank you, Mr. Wolfe. Now, sir, we will see what is the matter.”
Wolfe drew aside and watched Dr. Threadgold make his examination. His first impressions had tempted him to mistrust the little man’s ability, nor had he watched Dr. Threadgold’s chubby hands for half a minute before he knew him for a fumbler and no surgeon. A craftsman is very quick in judging a fellow craftsman, and Threadgold was fussy, ineffectual, and uncertain with his hands. He chattered half to himself and half to his patient, with the busy self-consciousness of a man of poor capacity.
His hands gave Wolfe the impression of not being quite sure of what they ought to do next. There was no decisive, diagnostic intelligence about them. Moreover, Threadgold caused the big man a great deal of unnecessary pain.
“Acromion process—hum—exactly. Clavicle a leetle bit up—perhaps. Swelling very pronounced, very pronounced——”
Sir George writhed.
“Confound it, Threadgold.”
“One moment, sir. I assure you——”
“How much longer do you want to mess me about?”
Threadgold patted the swollen joint, looked wise and sympathetic, and glanced at Wolfe.
“Support Sir George’s arm, Mr. Wolfe.”
He pursed up his lips, and frowned over the gold rims of his glasses. Wolfe had a shrewd suspicion that Dr. Threadgold was none the wiser than when he began.
“There is a great deal of swelling there, Sir George, a very great deal of swelling. I should prefer to have the injured part rested, ice applied, and a second examination made to-morrow.”
The big man stared.
“What! You don’t mean to say——”
“My dear sir, in a case such as this, when some hours have elapsed——”
“Oh, bosh, man, I want the thing settled. Do you mean to say I’ve driven ten miles—for nothing? You’ve pulled me about enough——”
Dr. Threadgold went very pink.
“My dear Sir George, let me assure you that a diagnosis can only be hypothetical under such conditions.”
The baronet looked ugly. He was one of those plethoric, short-tempered men who lose all self-restraint under the influence of pain or of much provocation. He stared hard at Threadgold, and then turned his bristling eyebrows towards Wolfe, who was supporting the arm.
“Look here—just take this on. I don’t want to be fooled about any longer.”
Wolfe glanced at Threadgold. The little man’s face looked pink and suffused. His eyes were big behind his glasses.
“If you care to let my assistant examine you, Sir George——”
“Yes, I do.”
“Very well, sir, very well. I have nothing more to say.”
Threadgold pivoted round on one check-patterned leg, strutted to the hearthrug, pulled the lapels of his coat forward, and stood with chest expanded.
In five minutes Wolfe had Sir George Griggs stretched upon the sofa. The surgeon had taken off his left boot and was sitting on the edge of the sofa with his heel in the baronet’s armpit.
“I shall have to hurt you badly—for about ten seconds, sir.”
“Go on. I’m not a baby.”
“Catch hold of Mr. Ruston’s hand. Nothing like something to grip. Now, hold on.”
There was a moment of writhing, of grim, clenched anguish as Wolfe pulled at the arm and worked at the dislocated shoulder.
“In. That’s good.”
“What—all over?”
“Yes.”
The big man lay on the sofa and panted, while Mr. Ruston flapped his hand.
“I say, that was a twister!”
“Ged—you gave me a squeezing!”
“Get me a ‘peg,’ someone; it’s made me feel pretty funny.”
He was sweating. Dr. Threadgold turned and rang the bell.
“Head of the bone was out, was it?”
“Yes. If you can sit up in a minute, sir, I’ll just see that everything is all right.”