Dr. Staines told her to hold the patient up. He lost not a moment, but
opened his mouth resolutely, and looked down.
"The glottis is swollen," said he: then he felt his hands, and said,
with the grave, terrible calm of experience, "He is dying."
"Oh, no! no! Oh, doctor, save him! save him!"
"Nothing can save him, unless we had a surgeon on the spot. Yes, I might
save him, if you have the courage: opening his windpipe before the next
spasm is his one chance."
"Open his windpipe! Oh, doctor! It will kill him. Let me look at you."
She looked hard in his face. It gave her confidence.
"Is it the only chance?"
"The only one: and it is flying while we chatter."
"DO IT."
He whipped out his lancet.
"But I can't look on it. I trust to you and my Saviour's mercy."
She fell on her knees, and bowed her head in prayer.
Staines seized a basin, put it by the bedside, made an incision in
the windpipe, and got Dick down on his stomach, with his face over the
bedside. Some blood ran, but not much. "Now!" he cried, cheerfully, "a
small bellows! There's one in your parlor. Run."
Phoebe ran for it, and at Dr. Staines' direction lifted Dick a little,
while the bellows, duly cleansed, were gently applied to the aperture
in the windpipe, and the action of the lungs delicately aided by this
primitive but effectual means.
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