The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  “Where’s Benedict?” demanded Miller curtly of Miss Willett, quelling the young women with a sweep of his eye—an eye which never yet had been disobeyed.

  “Hullo, there, doctor!” answered a voice from the sterilizing-room. “I’m washing up. Say, but I’m glad you’re here, though! Come on and scrub.”

  Miller strode through the door.

  “What’s the trouble?” he asked.

  “Trouble enough—patient’s just being etherized now. I was never so relieved in all my life as when I got your wire saying you’d be here. Everything’s figured out to a T. If you’d been late, though—”

  Benedict looked around with a grimace as he soused his hands in the third solution, preparatory to drying them on a sterilized towel.

  “Who is it? What is it?” Miller persisted, the while he slipped his operating-tunic over his coat and took a handful of green soap. He glanced sharply at the younger man, his classmate of five years ago, now his assistant at the Trail.

  “Young woman, about twenty-five or so,” answered Benedict. “Didn’t get the name very well, but I think she’s from Hillingdon. No matter—she’s a stranger here, anyway.”

  “Well, what’s the difficulty?” interrogated Miller, a shade of impatience rising in his voice. The word “Hillingdon” recalled the bitter quarrel, the shame of being misunderstood, the curt dismissal—all the miserable affair which his hunting-trip had so signally failed to obliterate. “Well, what is it?”

  “Aneurysm of the left jugular.”

  “So?”

  “Yes—rather unusual, eh?”

  “I should say so. Badly distended?”

  “Liable to end fatally any hour—been coming on for some time, but diagnosed as neuralgia or some such foolishness—very unfortunate error of some local doctor down there.”

  “Why didn’t you call in Ferrell, or go ahead with it yourself?”

  Benedict shook his head.

  “No, no,” he answered, “I thought we’d better wait for you. Don’t want to throw bouquets, you know, but—”

  “There now, that’ll do!” grumbled Miller, rinsing his hands. Miller was impervious to compliments. Not even the fact that at twenty-nine, only four years out of college, he was already something of an authority on aneurisms could upset his strictly impersonal attitude toward his own skill. “Everything all ready?” he went on. “Hemostats? Scalpels? Silver wire? Must have it very fine, you know—can’t wrap a jugular with ship’s cable!”

  “You’ll find everything correct,” Benedict assured him. “There, she’s being brought in now!”

  The quiet opening of a door and the roll of rubber-tired wheels, joined with a sickish whiff of ether, heralded the introduction of the patient into the bright glare of the operating room. Miller heard a whispering and a shuffle of feet as the orderly and nurses laid the woman on the table; then a slight scraping noise told that they were dragging the instrument-stands into position. Benedict walked out to take his place; Miller gave his hands a last dip, a final drying, and followed him.

  For a moment he did not see the face of the woman; then Miss Willett drew from it the sterilized cloth, and—Miller’s heart gave a sick jump; all the blood in him seemed rushing to it, leaving his ruddy face as gray as winter’s dawn. His stout knees trembled; and that steady hand of his, which had so often held the even balance between life and death—where was now its cunning? Little glistening diamonds of sweat came prickling out all over his forehead.

  He stepped back into the sterilizing-room, shaking like a frightened child.

  “Oh, Lord!” he gasped. “You—Isabelle! Benedict,” he called a moment later, in a choking voice, “come out here!”

  The assistant surgeon came to him.

  “Say, Benedict, I—I—” stammered Miller. “Say, what does this mean? How did Isa—she—this patient get here? She—she—why—” He choked, stared, remained speechless.

  “What in time’s the matter with you?” questioned Benedict, alarmed. “Touch of sun?”

  “No—nothing! Just tell me the—the circumstances, can’t you?”

  “Why, there’s nothing much to tell. Got a telephone from Mrs. Dill, up there on Benton Avenue, you know, last night. Went up. Found she had a friend visiting from Hillingdon—this woman here. Pain in throat, abnormal pulsation, and all that sort of thing—made the examination—found the aneurysm, that’s all. Had her kept quiet till this morning—then brought here. Consultation. Decided to wire you on the chance—you said you’d be at the Dorian today. Well, you’re here, and so’s the patient—everything all right so far. Get it? Anything outof order? . . .”

  “No, no, but—”

  “But what? Here’s your patient all anesthetized and waiting. It’s up to you now. If there’s any irregularity anywhere, let it go till later. Professional etiquette—if that’s it—can’t stand in the way now! What’s up, eh? You look like a cadaver, and that’s a fact! Pull up, Miller, and come along out here!”

  The assistant seemed to have taken control; Miller was, for a moment, as clay in his hands. But only for a moment; then he elbowed Benedict out through the door.

  “All right,” he said. “Get everything ready; I’ll be there in a minute.” He gripped his strong, sterile hands together so tight that the knuckles whitened under the tan; he clinched his teeth till the big jaw-muscles bunched like cordage. “Now, boy!”

  III.

  Dr. Miller’s hand was steel and his eyes were as glass when he made the primary incision. His voice was even and low:

  “Clip, here—now the scalpel—no, no, the other one—forceps—hold here—so—that’s right!”

  He was beginning one of the most curious, difficult, and dangerous operations known to surgery—that of exposing and wrapping with silver wire a weakened, swollen artery of vital importance. “Aneurysm” is a word of dread; if one bursts, or if the surgeon’s knife slips, cutting the distended walls—farewell!

  Miller’s knife did not slip; his hand, large and strong, held the keen scalpel with a fine precision of which an etcher might be jealous. His eyes did not wander higher than the patient’s throat; all sense of her personality was gulfed in that almost mechanical accuracy, that nerveless, deliberate skill which from the beginning of his career had marked him as one of the few. His face, nevertheless, continued to be putty-gray, and the little diamonds on his forehead did not evaporate.

  Benedict seconded him like the able assistant he was; Miss Willett stood at the head of the table, ether-cone in hand; the other two passed instruments, took them from their glass trays of solution, dropped them back, when used, into other solutions. Quiet brooded beneath the glare from the broad skylight—quiet except for the deep breathing of the patient, the clink of the instruments in their trays, or the cool words of the surgeon. The artery lay exposed.

  “Now the wire!” commanded Miller; and Miss Schwenk, the second nurse, reached it to him with silver forceps.

  “Brrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

  Through the hospital thrilled and vibrated a harsh electric gong, the gong that meant only one emergency—fire!

  Benedict started nervously; the nurses shifted positions a trifle. Miller knitted his broad brows, but otherwise paid no more heed to the strident alarm than if it had been a summons to dinner. He looped the first strand of silver, dexterously introduced the second, then said impersonally:

  “Lock the door, please, Miss Schwenk. Lock both doors!”

  The nurse hesitated. Through the reek of ether an acrid odor of smoke had filtered into the windowless room; and over the skylight there was drawing something like a bluish veil. Far down the street jangled a faint distant clangor of bells, mingled with a thin wail of fire-engine whistles.

  “Lock—the—doors!” repeated Miller, and this time his eyes were on Miss Schwenk.

  She gave a nervous little giggle, quite unprofessionally feminine, and obeyed.

  “Now bring me the keys,” murmured the surgeon, bending to his work. “Lay them right
here, please.”

  His glance indicated a little clear space on the operating-table. Miss Schwenk obeyed again.

  “Thank you,” said Miller courteously.

  The operation continued, Miller icy-cool, the others beginning to fidget a trifle. The engines were drawing near; cries, shouts, hoarse bawlings sounded outside; they heard the clang of the chief’s wagon hurtling down the street; the clattering hoofs, the thundering wheels, as the great machines whirled on. A crowd was gathering—the noise welled up as the tide wells against a cliff-shore.

  Someone rattled the handle of the operating room door, screeched “Out! Out! East wing’s goin’ fast!” and then rushed off down the corridor, where immense chaos reigned—whence came cries, groans, the sound of hurrying feet, screams of terror, as nurses and orderlies rushed the patients unceremoniously, in wheelchairs or in their arms, over into the west wing, to temporary safety.

  Then, over all that tumult from within and without, blared the hoarse whistle of the heating-plant—three long, bellowing blasts as from a brazen, tortured Minotaur—the signal of extreme-emergency—“All out!” And at that sound the tumult waxed into a hurricane of rushing terror.

  “Quiet, Miss Chase!” commanded Miller. “Ten minutes, and this patient can be moved—not before! Please sterilize this clamp!”

  Calmly he made another loop with the silver wire. Thicker and thicker the smoke puffed in around the door which communicated with the corridor; across the skylight whirled a darkening veil. Miss Schwenk began to sob hysterically.

  “Quiet! Quiet!” repeated the surgeon; but Benedict, pale to the lips, interrupted him:

  “Really, Miller, this is—”

  “Shh-h-h! Hold that hemostat!”

  “But—but—five of us—we’ll be cut off in—”

  “Remember you’re a surgeon!” was Miller’s only answer, yet it covered Benedict’s drawn face with a hot flush.

  Outside, the engines were whirring and puffing; the tumult was that of a great concourse. Inside, the operating room door was beginning to smoke; the air was thick and blue, difficult to breathe. The skylight was obscured; burning brands and cinders were whirling down upon it, faster and faster. It was growing dark.

  “Miss Chase, the lights, please!” commanded Miller.

  The wires, he knew, came in from the front, and were as yet intact. As Miss Chase clicked the switch-button, a bright, warm radiance filled the white-walled room. A louder shouting rose outside. The crowd, mistaking the glow from the skylight for the glare of fire, believed the operating-pavilion itself invaded.

  Miller glanced up for an instant with contracted brows. “You can go now,” said he to the women. “Benedict and I can finish this alone. Get out as quick as you can, and shut the door after you, tight! Down the basement stairs and out through the laundry. Understand?”

  Two of the nurses, with scared but grateful glances, took unceremonious leave. The key grated; footsteps pattered out through the sterilizing-room—then came a gush of smoke as the corridor door opened and closed. The iron stairs into the basement faintly echoed their running steps—they were gone.

  “Well?” asked Miller, looking up and seeing Miss Willett still at the patient’s head.

  “I’ll stay!” said she. “The pavilion won’t cave in for five minutes yet, I’m sure—maybe more. I won’t desert! Go on!”

  She spoke rapidly, with the fever of a gambling chance in her eyes—eyes with dilated pupils and dark, inscrutable depths, that rested upon Miller with a look which no son of Adam ever misunderstands. Miller did not misunderstand—he simply did not care.

  “Oh, very well, as you like,” he answered. “But go any time you please; nothing but the dressings to do now.”

  “In that case,” spoke up Benedict, “I’m going! You and she can finish all right—this place is afire now—it’ll cave in any minute! Look at that door—burning! I’m off!”

  He laid down the hemostat he was holding, stood up, and faced Miller defiantly, his face twitching, his eyes glittering in the electric, glare; all around him curled and eddied the thickening smoke.

  “Sit down!” said Miller. “Don’t be a coward!” His firm hands made the last loop. “Don’t let any one ever call you that. It hurts; I know! Hand me over those dressings now, and sit down!”

  Benedict, with an oath, started for the door. As he came around the end of the operating-table, Miller, holding his needle in his left hand, flung back his tunic with the right and whipped out his long-nosed revolver.

  “You sit down!” said he. “I’ve got some fire of my own, right here, and it’s quicker than what’s outside, too! Take your choice—but remember I can’t miss at such short range! There, that’s right, I knew you’d be reasonable. Hand that tray of bichloride over here—I’ve got to sterilize my fingers. That gun’s aseptic.”

  He dabbled his hand in the sublimate, carefully dried it on the sterile sheet, and started on the dressings. Benedict crouched in his chair beside the table, dazed, mechanical, obeying as a whipped dog obeys. Miss Willett, breathing hard, helped apply the collodion, the cotton, and the bandages.

  The task was nearly done—the blazing corridor door was warping inward; thin little tongues of lire licked up along the panels. Outside reigned pandemonium as the fire spread—spread toward the west wing, unheeding the engines, which shook and sobbed and spat glowing cinders up into the smoky pall. The skylight, all drifted over with firebrands, was sagging, fusing; the air inside the operating room seemed glowing like a furnace, in the electric glare. Then something shook and gave; a roar burst up into the sky; through the fire-shot smoke flared a glorious fan of radiance, and the multitude shouted hoarsely—the east wing had fallen in like a cardboard-house, and the brick operating-pavilion, with blazing roof and cracking walls, was standing alone in that carnival of flame.

  “Hose, here hose!” the shout rang. “Crash!” went the skylight as a stream hit it; down jingled and clattered a shower of glass, down soused a torrent of muddy water. Miller’s big arms and body shielded the woman’s face; smoke poured in, down, all about them—gray, greasy, strangling smoke.

  “That blanket! That blanket!” cried Miller in a choking gasp. “There! Now, raise the shoulders! That’s right! Now under—now over—so! . . . .”

  The woman lay wrapped, head and all, like a monster cocoon.

  Smash! smash! The door from the etherizing-room trembles, breaks, gives—sharp spurs of firemen’s axes splinter it, shatter the lock—the door breaks down—two, three firemen stumble in, heads muffled, axes in gloved hands.

  “Out! Out!” they roar dully. “Only chance is through de winder out here in de nex’ room! Clear out!”

  One seizes Miss Willett and carries her off bodily through the curling smoke. Benedict, shielding his head with his hands, rushes out wildly. Then comes a sudden dash of waters all over Miller and the woman, as some other firemen get a line of hose up the ladder into the next room.

  “Wait! Hold on!” yells Miller. “Turn that the other way!”

  And gathering up in his strong arms, as if she had been a child, the unconscious woman who had branded him a coward, he bears her out of the now fiercely flaming place, through the window of the etherizing-room, down the swaying, smoking ladder.

  SPEED LIMIT

  Originally published in The Cavalier, November 15, 1913.

  “She’s certainly a jim-slicker!” murmured Judge Amos Bartlett, shifting his quid. He spat accurately, fingered his goatee, and laid a hand on the glossy saddle of the machine.

  “By Joe Beeswax! a right smart contraption, ain’t she, now that I kin see her by daylight? Looks twice as hun’some as she did last night, when she come. Gosh, I cal’late she wun’t take nubbody’s dust! Bet two fingers on the choppin’-block, an’ resk it, she’ll hum!”

  With the eye of love he studied his purchase.

  Right-o! she surely was a dazzler as she stood there in her bravery of blue and gilt, just uncrated, with the morning sun corus
cating her nickel-work.

  And, gazing, the old judge felt a thrill of temptation poignant as the long-forgotten passions of a youth now dead these forty years.

  “Gosh a’mighty, why not?” he murmured, giving dalliance the rein. “I know I could! I useter navigate a by-cycle as smart as any of ’em; an’ the book says this here ain’t a mite harder to handle. Dog my cats ef I wanta try her the fust time, with everybody buttin’ in an’ tellin’ me how to break the critter. What I need’s a leetle spin all by myself out Pinhook way an’ back, jest to git the hang of it like. After that mebbe I wun’t s’prise ’em, hey?”

  Foreknowing that he would yield to temptation, he still considered a bit.

  “Shucks!” he grunted at last “I got any God’s amount o’ time ’fore court’s called. That there Brooks land case ain’t docketed till nine. No namable reason I sh’d wait till afternoon. I—I’m a goin’ to!”

  A new light flashed in the spectacled eye. The judge breathed a trifle faster and spat again.

  “I kin!” he exclaimed with emotion. “Reckon I ain’t seen my boy Hiram run a wood-cutter an’ ensilage-chopper two years fer nawthin’! He allus said it was plumb easy. All ye need’s common sense, an’ I reckon that’s my long shot. I’ll take a run right off now, while th’ road’s clear. Out to Pinhook an’ back makes a good route. Jim Hick! I kin an’ will!”

  Not five minutes higher the August sun had crept when it beheld the judge, there in the barn, communing with the direction book and with the mechanism of the Antelope—consulting them in alternation.

  “H-m! Well, that’s done now. Tank ‘F’ is filled with naphthy. Connections at ‘B’ is all fixed. Leever ‘D’ is set right. Switch ‘X’ is turned. Cor-rect!