The Man with a Shadow

“I have not much to say, but it is the result of years of study, and that you shall hear.”

Then, for the space of half-an-hour, in fluent, forcible language, he poured forth the result of his observations and belief that they, the followers of the noble science of surgery, had a great discovery before them waiting to be made, one which it was the duty of all to endeavour to drag forth from the dark depths in which Nature hid away her treasures.

He declared that death should only follow upon old age, when the fruit was quite ripe, and ready to fall from the tree of life. He left it to the followers of medicine to attack and conquer disease, so that plague and pestilence should no longer carry off their hecatombs of victims, and addressed the surgeon alone, telling him that in case of accident or after operation, no man of health or vigour should be allowed to die.

There was a half laugh here, and a sneer or two.

“I repeat it,” cried the speaker. “No such man should be allowed to die.” Previous to his accident he was in robust health, and his apparent death was only, as it were, a trance, into which he fell while Nature busily commenced her work of restoration, the building-up again of the injured tissues. How the sustaining of the patient while Nature worked her cure was to be carried out, it was the duty of them all to discover, and for one he vowed that he would not rest till the discovery was made.

In the case of drowning it was often but suspended animation. In the case of accident and apparent death, it would be the same. Death by shock, he maintained, was a blot upon the science of the present day. Those who died by shock merely slept. Such body was in full health and vigour, and Nature would repair all damages by the aid of man; and he was convinced that the time would come when surgeons would save a hundred lives where they now saved one.

The speaker sat down amidst a whirlwind of applause, for his manner, his thorough belief, and his earnestness carried away his audience; and the result would have been a most exciting discussion but for the intervention of the chairman, who pointed to the clock, and at once introduced the great surgeon, while a murmur ran through the theatre as a large table was wheeled into the centre of the building from behind a curtain, and those present knew what the draping of the table concealed.

A burst of applause greeted the grave, grey-headed surgeon; and as it ceased, he expressed, in a few well-selected words, the pleasure he had felt in listening to Dr Horace North, to whose theory he expressed himself ready to pin his faith.

“And I say this, gentlemen, for the reason that I am here to-night – to point out to you how great a stride can be made in surgery – how much we have yet to learn.”

Then, explaining in a calm, clear voice as he went on, he turned back his sleeves, and selected a long, keen blade from a velvet-lined case, signed to his assistants, and the subject upon which he was to operate lay there grim, cold, and ghastly.

No: not ghastly to the earnest men who saw in it the martyr immolated to the saving of thousands, as, with deft fingers and unerring skill, the great surgeon made his incisions; and exemplifying step by step each act and its reasons, he performed his wonderful experiment to the last stroke; and then, having finished, was about to draw back when there was a volley of stones upon door and window, and, amid the creaking of woodwork and the tinkling of falling glass, came the yelling of the virtuous mob – “Yah!”

And directly afterwards – “Body-snatchers! Yah!” For a moment there was a stillness, as if the audience in the lecture theatre had been paralysed; then there was a general stampede towards the door, and a burst of rage, excitement, and dread, as a voice loudly announced that the mob had scaled the wall and were in the yard – a tremendous volley of stones and brickbats endorsing the announcement.

For a few minutes only one present seemed to keep his head, and that was the old operator, who whispered a few orders to his assistants, and with rapid action the table, with its burden, was draped and wheeled beyond the curtained arch from which it had been drawn, the banging of a heavy door and the shooting of bolts following directly after.

The beating of heavy sticks upon the doors, the smashing in of the windows, glass and wire-work giving way at every volley, and the yelling of the mob, made a deafening uproar, during which the old surgeon calmly began returning his favourite operating knives to their purple velvet-lined cases, locking them up carefully, as he turned to Horace North, who stood beside him, and said, with a smile:

“Now what have we done to deserve such treatment as this?”

“Yah! Body-snatchers!” came with a burst of yells from without.

“Done, sir?” said the young doctor, flushing. “Toiled hard to discover means of alleviating pain and saving life. This is our reward.”

“Yes,” said the old man, smiling, as he patted his cases. “My pets; I shouldn’t like to lose them. Yes, sir, ignorance in Christian England in the nineteenth century!”

“Yah! Body-snatchers!” came again; and the howling and yelling mob were evidently forcing their way in.

“Never mind them, Mr North,” continued the old man. “Let me see and hear from you. I believe in your theory. You have gone too far, my dear sir; youth is sanguine. You have aimed at the top of the mountain. You will not get there, but to a good high place, and I am proud to have met so clever, so talented a young man.”

“Thank you, sir; thank you,” cried North, as the old man lowered his cases into his pockets; “but hadn’t we better try and get away?”

“Try?” said the old man. “I do not see how we can. The mob are arranging for seizing by escalade.”

“Yah! Body-snatchers!” came in a fierce yell, louder, too, as it followed upon a tremendous crash.

The irruption of the London “Yahoos” had taken place, and they were pouring in, headed by a fierce-looking, crop-eared, bullet-headed ruffian, and the fight began.

Medical students can fight; and upon this occasion they used their fists scientifically and well; but the odds were against them. The mob swept on, and the big ruffian and a dozen companions made a dash over the seats, treating them as they would those of the gallery of a theatre on a night when they wished to express their displeasure.

Before Horace North realised the fact, they were upon the group by where the operating table had stood, and close to another table upon which were bottles, glasses, basins, sponges, and a pestle and mortar.

The young doctor was borne back as the yell – the war-cry, “Yah! Body-snatchers!” – once more arose, and as he struggled with one scoundrel who tried to take vengeance upon him by stealing his watch, he saw the grey-headed old surgeon struck down by the bullet-headed, butcher-like ruffian who led the gang; and the fellow was about to follow up his attack by performing a war-dance upon the defenceless old man.

He had not time, for Horace North literally flung himself upon the savage and drove him from his prey, but only to be grasped in turn by one whose greatest pleasure was destruction, and whose unpleasant mouth expanded into a satisfied grin as he bore back the body of his weaker adversary, and with it a good deal of the future of Mary and Leo Salis linked in with that of half the village of Duke’s Hampton.

“Ah, would yer! it’s my turn now.”

The vengeance of his class against what he called a “swell.”

Chapter Three.

Science at Work

Horace North was more of the student than the athlete, and he felt the blood rushing to his head – a strange sensation of vertigo which he could have aptly described in writing, and thoroughly expressed, with all due detail, the action going on by the compression of certain veins and an artery. But for a few moments, in the mêlée, he could do nothing to free himself of the savage grip, which threatened to injure him for life, if it did not quite destroy.

But science is a fine backer of brute force. A man with little muscle is the equal of a giant when both are armed with sword or pistol; and could Horace North have brought his science to bear in the shape of galvanism or some anaesthetic, he would have had the burly giant at his mercy instead of rapidly losing his senses.

Galvanism was, however, not at hand, the opportunity to administer a dose of ether or chloroform was also wanting, and as one of the young doctor’s hands vainly grasped the ruffian’s sinewy wrist, the other fell nearly nerveless upon the table against which he was borne.

Here, fortunately, he found the much-needed help of science in the shape of a pestle of marble comfortably reposing in its native mortar.

Horace North had often used a pestle in peace; he now used it in war, for his fingers closed upon the wooden handle, the heavy weapon described the arc of a circle, there was a sounding rap, half an oath – barely that – and the big ruffian fell all in a heap upon the floor.

For a few moments Horace North felt dazed, but the fighting instinct of the man was now roused, and as a couple of the leader’s friends came at him to avenge their comrade’s fall, one uttered a yell as the pestle was dashed in his face, and the other a howl as it came down with a crack upon his collarbone, both being rendered hors de combat, while the doctor now bestrode the prostrate body of the old surgeon, and kept the rest at bay.

Just at this time there was a burst of cheering, for the students were warming to the fray and fighting shoulder to shoulder. The mob, disheartened by their leader’s fall, began to give way. The atmosphere of the lecture-hall was evidently too warm, and their retrograde movement rapidly became a rout, in which they were swept bodily out of the place by door and window, too much governed by the laws of self-preservation to think even of those who were down.

Then, as the last scoundrel was driven out, and a tremendous cheer arose from the victors, a strong body of police marched into the hall, well buttoned up and beautifully cool, to find that the work was done – all save that of marching off half-a-dozen dizzy, unwashed savages to the cooling cell.

“Better, sir?”

“Eh? Better? Yes – a little contused. Water! Thank you. Yes; better now. Rather rough proceedings.”

The old man looked round rather piteously, till his eyes lighted upon the young doctor.

“Ah! you, Mr North. I remember now. Thank you. Would you mind helping me to my carriage? I’m rather giddy.”

The task was done: the old man being helped to the hospital, and through it to a private entrance, where his carriage was in attendance, away from the crowd.

“That’s right. Come home with me, Mr North. I should like a few words with you, if you would not mind.”

Horace North gladly entered the carriage, for he thought the old man not fit to go alone, and in the excitement at the hospital no one paid him the slightest attention.

“Now come to my room,” said the old man, as they were set down at his residence in Harley Street. “Hurt? Oh, no! – a trifle. I want to talk to you about your plans. We’ll have a cup of coffee, a cigar, and a chat.”

That chat in the great surgeon’s study lasted till daybreak, and then Horace North walked back to his hotel with his brain on fire. For, with his ideas to a certain extent endorsed by the great authority he had just quitted, he saw himself on the eve of a grand discovery, one which should immortalise his name and benefit his fellow-creatures to a vast extent.

“It is like taking a plunge into the unknown,” he cried, as he walked hurriedly on, excited beyond measure. For Horace North was like the rest of the world – blind as to what would happen. Had he been otherwise, he would have buried his secret thoughts for ever sooner than have faced that which was to come.