Thus the front of the
shattered bone lay exposed. The doctor sighed, as he pushed at
this with a steady finger, his eyes frowning, absorbed. The bullet
wound in the anterior edge was not clean cut. Near it was a long,
heavy splinter of bone, the cause of the inflammation--something
not suspected in the hurried dressing of the wound in the half
darkness at the river edge. This bone end, but loosely attached,
was broken free, thrust down into the angry and irritated flesh.
For an instant Jamieson studied the injury. The silence of death
was in the room. The tense muscles of the patient might have been
those of a lifeless man. Only the horrid sound of the dripping
blood, falling from the table upon the carpet, broke the silence.
"I had a coon dog once," began Doctor Jamieson cheerfully--"I don't
know whether you remember him or not, Dunwody. Sort of a yellow
dog, with long ears and white eye. Just wait a minute." He
hastened over to the side of the table and bent again over his case
of instruments.
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