- end_line
- 10080
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 10009
- text
- upon this thigh-bone”—disengaging it from the skeleton, with a gentle
twist—“the precise place where I propose to perform the operation.
_Here_, young gentlemen, _here_ is the place. You perceive it is very
near the point of articulation with the trunk.”
“Yes,” interposed Surgeon Wedge, rising on his toes, “yes, young
gentlemen, the point of articulation with the _acetabulum_ of the _os
innominatum_.”
“Where’s your Bell on Bones, Dick?” whispered one of the assistants to
the student next him. “Wedge has been spending the whole morning over
it, getting out the hard names.”
“Surgeon Wedge,” said Cuticle, looking round severely, “we will
dispense with your commentaries, if you please, at present. Now, young
gentlemen, you cannot but perceive, that the point of operation being
so near the trunk and the vitals, it becomes an unusually beautiful
one, demanding a steady hand and a true eye; and, after all, the
patient may die under my hands.”
“Quick, Steward! water, water; he’s fainting again!” cried the two
mess-mates.
“Don’t be alarmed for your comrade; men,” said Cuticle, turning round.
“I tell you it is not an uncommon thing for the patient to betray some
emotion upon these occasions—most usually manifested by swooning; it is
quite natural it should be so. But we must not delay the operation.
Steward, that knife—no, the next one—there, that’s it. He is coming to,
I think”—feeling the top-man’s wrist. “Are you all ready, sir?”
This last observation was addressed to one of the Neversink’s assistant
surgeons, a tall, lank, cadaverous young man, arrayed in a sort of
shroud of white canvas, pinned about his throat, and completely
enveloping his person. He was seated on a match-tub—the skeleton
swinging near his head—at the foot of the table, in readiness to grasp
the limb, as when a plank is being severed by a carpenter and his
apprentice.
“The sponges, Steward,” said Cuticle, for the last time taking out his
teeth, and drawing up his shirt sleeves still further. Then, taking the
patient by the wrist, “Stand by, now, you mess-mates; keep hold of his
arms; pin him down. Steward, put your hand on the artery; I shall
commence as soon as his pulse begins to—_now, now!_” Letting fall the
wrist, feeling the thigh carefully, and bowing over it an instant, he
drew the fatal knife unerringly across the flesh. As it first touched
the part, the row of surgeons simultaneously dropped their eyes to the
watches in their hands while the patient lay, with eyes horribly
distended, in a kind of waking trance. Not a breath was heard; but as
the quivering flesh parted in a long, lingering gash, a spring of blood
welled up between the living walls of the wounds, and two thick
streams, in opposite directions, coursed down the thigh. The sponges
were instantly dipped in the purple pool; every face present was
pinched to a point with suspense; the limb writhed; the man shrieked;
his mess-mates pinioned him; while round and round the leg went the
unpitying cut.
“The saw!” said Cuticle.
Instantly it was in his hand.
Full of the operation, he was about to apply it, when, looking up, and
turning to the assistant surgeons, he said, “Would any of you young
gentlemen like to apply the saw? A splendid subject!”
Several volunteered; when, selecting one, Cuticle surrendered the
instrument to him, saying, “Don’t be hurried, now; be steady.”
While the rest of the assistants looked upon their comrade with glances
of envy, he went rather timidly to work; and Cuticle, who was earnestly
regarding him, suddenly snatched the saw from his hand. “Away, butcher!
you disgrace the profession. Look at _me!_”
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