 | Fire Fight Fire |  |
III
DR. MILLER'S hand was steel and his eyes were as glass when he made the primary incision. His voice was even and low:
"Clip, here — now the scalpel — no, no, the other one — forceps — hold here — so — that's right!"
He was beginning one of the most curious, difficult, and dangerous operations known to surgery — that of exposing and wrapping with silver wire a weakened, swollen artery of vital importance. "Aneurism" is a word of dread; if one bursts, or if the surgeon's knife slips, cutting the distended walls — farewell!
Miller's knife did not slip; his hand, large and strong, held the keen scalpel with a fine precision of which an etcher might be jealous. His eyes did not wander higher than the patient's throat; all sense of her personality was gulfed in that almost mechanical accuracy, that nerveless, deliberate skill which from the beginning of his career had marked him as one of the few. His face, nevertheless, continued to be putty-gray, and the little diamonds on his forehead did not evaporate.
Benedict seconded him like the able assistant he was; Miss Willett stood at the head of the table, ether-cone in hand; the other two passed instruments, took them from their glass trays of solution, dropped them back, when used, into other solutions. Quiet brooded beneath the glare from the broad skylight — quiet except for the deep breathing of the patient, the clink of the instruments in their trays, or the cool words of the surgeon. The artery lay exposed.
"Now the wire!" commanded Miller; and Miss Schwenk, the second nurse, reached it to him with silver forceps.
"Brrrrrrrrrrrr!"
Through the hospital thrilled and vibrated a harsh electric gong, the gong that meant only one emergency — fire!
Benedict started nervously; the nurses shifted positions a trifle. Miller knitted his broad brows, but otherwise paid no more heed to the strident alarm than if it had been a summons to dinner. He looped the first strand of silver, dexterously introduced the second, then said impersonally:
"Lock the door, please, Miss Schwenk. Lock both doors!"
The nurse hesitated. Through the reek of ether an acrid odor of smoke had filtered into the windowless room; and over the skylight there was drawing something like a bluish veil. Far down the street jangled a faint distant clangor of bells, mingled with a thin wail of fire-engine whistles.
"Lock — the — doors!" repeated Miller, and this time his eyes were on Miss Schwenk.
She gave a nervous little giggle, quite unprofessionally feminine, and obeyed.
"Now bring me the keys," murmured the surgeon, bending to his work. "Lay them right here, please."
His glance indicated a little clear space on the operating-table. Miss Schwenk obeyed again.
"Thank you," said Miller courteously.
The operation continued, Miller icy-cool, the others beginning to fidget a trifle. The engines were drawing near; cries, shouts, hoarse bawlings sounded outside; they heard the clang of the chief's wagon hurling down the street; the clattering hoofs, the thundering wheels, as the great machines whirled on. A crowd was gathering — the noise welled up as the tide wells against a cliff-shore.
Some one rattled the handle of the operating-room door, screeched "Out!
Then, over all that tumult from within and without, blared the hoarse whistle of the heating-plant — three long, bellowing blasts as from a brazen, tortured Minotaur — the signal of extreme emergency — "All out!" And at that sound the tumult waxed into a hurricane of rushing terror.
"Quiet, Miss Chase!" commanded Miller. "Ten minutes, and this patient can be moved — not before! Please sterilize this clamp!"
Calmly he made another loop with the silver wire. Thicker and thicker the smoke puffed in around the door which communicated with the corridor; across the skylight whirled a darkening veil. Miss Schwenk began to sob hysterically.
"Quiet! Quiet!" repeated the surgeon; but Benedict, pale to the lips, interrupted him:
"Really, Miller, this is —"
"Shh-h-h! Hold that hemostat!"
"But — but — five of us — we'll be cut off in —"
"Remember you're a surgeon!" was Miller's only answer, yet it covered Benedict's drawn face with a hot flush.
Outside, the engines were whirring and puffing; the tumult was that of a great concourse. Inside, the operating-room door was beginning to smoke; the air was thick and blue, difficult to breathe. The skylight was obscured; burning brands and cinders were whirling down upon it, faster and faster. It was growing dark.
"Miss Chase, the lights, please!" commanded Miller.
The wires, he knew, came in from the front, and were as yet intact. As Miss Chase clicked the switch-button, a bright, warm radiance filled the white-walled room. A louder shouting rose outside. The crowd, mistaking the glow from the skylight for the glare of fire, believed the operating-pavilion itself invaded.
Miller glanced up for an instant with contracted brows.
"You can go now," said he to the women. "Benedict and I can finish this alone. Get out as quick as you can, and shut the door after you, tight! Down the basement stairs and out through the laundry. Understand?"
Two of the nurses, with scared but grateful glances, took unceremonious leave. The key grated; footsteps pattered out through the sterilizing room — then came a gush of smoke as the corridor door opened and closed. The iron stairs into the basement faintly echoed their running steps — they were gone.
"Well?" asked Miller, looking up and seeing Miss Willett still at the patient's head.
"I'll stay!" said she. "The pavilion won't cave in for five minutes yet, I'm sure — maybe more. I won't desert! Go on!"
She spoke rapidly, with the fever of a gambling chance in her eyes — eyes with dilated pupils and dark, inscrutable depths, that rested upon Miller with a look which no son of Adam ever misunderstands. Miller did not misunderstand — he simply did not care.
"Oh, very well, as you like," he answered. "But go any time you please; nothing but the dressings to do now."
"In that case," spoke up Benedict, "I'm going! You and she can finish all right — this place is afire now — it'll cave in any minute! Look at that door — burning! I'm off!"
He laid down the hemostat he was holding, stood up, and faced Miller defiantly, his face twitching, his eyes glittering in the electric glare; all around him curled and eddied the thickening smoke.
"Sit down!" said Miller. "Don't be a coward!" His firm hands made the last loop. "Don't let any one ever call you that! It hurts; I know! Hand me over those dressings now, and sit down!"
Benedict, with an oath, started for the door. As he came around the end of the operating-table, Miller, holding his needle in his left hand, flung back his tunic with the right and whipped out his long-nosed revolver.
"You sit down!" said he. "I've got
He dabbled his hand in the sublimate, carefully dried it on the sterile sheet, and started on the dressings. Benedict crouched in his chair beside the table, dazed, mechanical, obeying as a whipped dog obeys. Miss Willett, breathing hard, helped apply the collodion, the cotton, and the bandages.
The task was nearly done — the blazing corridor door was warping inward; thin little tongues of fire licked up along the panels. Outside reigned pandemonium as the fire spread — spread toward the west wing, unheeding the engines, which shook and sobbed and spat glowing cinders up into the smoky pall. The skylight, all drifted over with fire-brands, was sagging, fusing; the air inside the operating-room seemed glowing like a furnace, in the electric glare. Then something shook and gave; a roar burst up into the sky; through the fire-shot smoke flared a glorious fan of radiance, and the multitude shouted hoarsely — the east wing had fallen in like a cardboard-house, and the brick operating-pavilion, with blazing roof and cracking walls, was standing alone in that carnival of flame.
"Hose, here hose!" the shout rang. "Crash!" went the skylight as a stream hit it; down jingled and clattered a shower of glass, down soused a torrent of muddy water. Miller's big arms and body shielded the woman's face; smoke poured in, down, all about them — gray, greasy, strangling smoke.
"That blanket! That blanket!" cried Miller in a choking gasp. "There! Now, raise the shoulders! That's right! Now under — now over — so! . . . ."
The woman lay wrapped, head and all, like a monster cocoon.
Smash! smash! The door from the etherizing-room trembles, breaks, gives —sharp spurs of firemen's axes splinter it, shatter the lock — the door breaks down — two, three firemen stumble in, heads muffled, axes in gloved hands.
"Out! Out!" they roar dully. "Only chance is through de winder out here in de nex' room! Clear out!"
One seizes Miss Willett and carries her off bodily through the curling smoke. Benedict, shielding his head with his hands, rushes out wildly. Then comes a sudden dash of waters all over Miller and the woman, as some other firemen get a line of hose up the ladder into the next room.
"Wait! Hold on!" yells Miller. "Turn that the other way!"
And gathering up in his strong arms, as if she had been a child, the unconscious woman who had branded him a coward, he bears her out of the now fiercely flaming place, through the window of the etherizing-room, down the swaying, smoking ladder.
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