Читать книгу C.I.D. - Talbot Mundy - Страница 6

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ACROSS the border, five hundred yards from the railway station, in a corrugated iron barn that faced a yard at the back of the Sikh's dispensary, by the light of a gasoline lantern Stanley Copeland labored and forgot the weather. Rain drove in between the joints of the iron walls and drummed on the iron roof. Sometimes the lantern blew out at critical moments and the Sikh had to come to the rescue with his flashlight. The operating table was a thing of planks and trestles that had to be scrubbed at intervals with soap and water. There was a very slim supply of anaesthetics, and the Sikh was ignorant as well as nervous, although willing. There were no nurses — no trained help whatever.

But the Sikh had snatched at opportunity. The moment he was sure Copeland really would come he had gone hard at work at propaganda. He had promised that the greatest surgeon in the world would operate, free, gratis, and for nothing, on anyone, no matter who he was or what might be the matter with him. And the only reason why the Sikh had not been at the train to meet Copeland was that his dispensary was chock-a-block with patients clamoring for first turn. He had had to drive them out into the rain and lock the door on them before daring to leave the place; they might have wrecked it.

So, instead of restricting himself to eyes, with occasional side-ventures to an ear or throat, Copeland had been forced to tackle almost all the horrible and crippling ailments known to Asia. He had amputated gangrened legs, attended to enlarged spleens, opened abscesses, adjusted and set compound fractures, cauterized dog-bites, treated ague, diagnosed and taken chances with afflicted kidneys, livers—anything and everything. And luck was with him, as it usually is with men who pull their coats off and go straight ahead at what needs doing, even though they don't know how to do it. Nobody had died yet on the operating table. Seven days, of fourteen hours' work each, had gone by and the waiting list still grew. The sleepless Sikh was half-hysterical, but happy. Copeland had begun to dream he really might amount to something some day, which is half the battle. He could see himself getting the high-priced custom in Chicago or New York. And then a messenger arrived—a dish-faced messenger.

He came in grinning, dripping, with a flour-sack hooded on his head and shoulders. He was otherwise naked except for a breech-cloth. In his hand he held a cleft stick, in which a note was tied securely, wrapped in a scrap of goatskin. He refused to wait outside although a cancerous nose was being amputated. He refused to give the message to the Sikh. He forced his way in and waited patiently, amused by the removal of the nose and now and then feeling his own to make sure it was still there. When the job was finished and he had given up the note to Copeland, he offered to help scrub the operating table. He was not in the least discouraged or offended by the Sikh's rebuff, but watched the Sikh's assistant for a minute and then, being quite a person, pushed the incompetent duffer aside and did the whole job perfectly, in quick time.

Copeland lit his pipe with the fourth or fifth match—matches and tobacco being damp. Then he studied the note before he opened it. He only vaguely recognized the dish-faced man and was not really sure he remembered him. There was nobody who ought to write to him; no one, in fact whom he knew on the country-side. The thing suggested trouble, or perhaps an urgent call for surgical help in some outlying district, so he scowled at it. However, he was the kind of man who likes to hit his troubles on the snout, not run away. So at last he opened it. The address read:

"To the Skin 'em alive-o Doctor sahib at the Sikh's dispensary.—From Babu C.G."

That was impudent, but not discouraging. Besides, the messenger was a genuine human being with a good grin, who appeared to believe in working while he waited. That, too, was a favorable sign. He unfolded the paper and read on:

"This is from the fat babu who ate your dinner. Cheerio. How are you? Please excuse the paper, but the nearest shop is more than twenty miles away and the miles are mud if you can find them under water. I am curious to know if you are still premeditating battle with a tiger? Or have you slain so many people on the operating table that the thought of even lawful murder sickens you? If you are still ferocious, oil your gun but wait for kubber.* If you are still the gentlemanly sportsman that I took you for, be kind enough to hold your tongue about it, because silence feeds no flies, of which there are a lot too many. Please send back an answer by this messenger and tell me whether you would back your skill against a belly-trouble, said to be an ulcer but suspected by me to be more of a family token of regard. It might be possible to bag the tiger and assault the ulcer at the same time. Point is: will you do it?[BR] [BR] "Please don't pay the messenger, it spoils him. Give him two spots of the cheapest whisky you can get and kick him forth to come and find me with your answer. Hoping the supply of crushed and otherwise intriguing eyes is holding out; and wishing with all my heart that you were here to buy me drinks and dinner — alas, I have none of either! I remain, Your Honor's most respectful servant,

"C.G.

"P.S.—And remember, there is no such person!"

[* kubber, khubber (Hindi)—'news,' especially as a sporting term; news of game, e.g. "There is pucka khubber of a tiger this morning." The Hobson Jobson Dictionary. ]

Copeland thought a minute—thought of the work to be done where he was, and of the mud and the rain outside. He almost tore the note up — almost told the messenger to say "no answer." But the messenger grinned and the grin was good. And he remembered then that the fat babu had smiled like someone who was safe to bet on. So he handed the messenger two rupees and told him:

"Go and buy yourself some whisky. Come back when you've drunk it."

Then he wrote on a piece of dispensary paper:

"From S.C. to C.G. This is a telegram. Try me. I don't believe you."

He folded it, sealed it with a lump of candle-grease, impressed his thumb-mark, wrapped it in the goatskin, tied it in the cleft stick, set it where the messenger could see it on a stool beside the door, then:

"Come on," he said to the Sikh, "bring in your next case. At this rate it'll be midnight before we've done a day's work."