HERE were few cleverer surgeons in London than my friend, Edward Wesseley, and when I called at his house in Harley Street on a certain morning early in the March of last year, I scarcely expected to be able to secure the five minutes of his attention which were essential to my purpose. I was anxious to consult him with regard to a certain point on brain paralysis, about which I was then making some interesting investigations. A word from his vast store of experience would set a small difficulty straight, and I scribbled a message to that effect on my card. The servant quickly re appeared, asking me to come immediately into his master's presence. I entered Wesseley's consulting-room—he came forward with his accustomed eagerness to greet me.
“No apologies, my dear Gilchrist,” he cried. “It so happens that you have come in the very nick of time. I am just about to operate on a patient who is awaiting me in my home for cases next door. His illness has arisen from the following cause: He received a bad fall on the left side of the head when playing polo about a month ago. Since then he has been paralyzed in the right arm and leg, with anæsthesia in the leg almost complete, and hyperæsthesia in the arm. I have not the slightest doubt that paralysis is due to pressure on the angular gyrus of the left side of the brain, and am about to immediately. My operation will explain away your difficulties better than any amount of discussion; and if you care to lend me a hand I shall be only too pleased to have your suggestions, and, if necessarv, your help.”
“Of course I shall be delighted,” I answered.
I accompanied Wesseley next door, and we waited for a moment or two in a room next the one in which the operation was to take place.
“I will not call you in until the patient is unconscious,” he said. “I am only waiting now until Rivington, the anæsthetist, has arrived.”
Wesseley had scarcely said the latter words before the door was flung open, and a slender, young-looking man was ushered into the room—he had a thin, dark face, and deeply-set eyes with a somewhat nervous expression. Wesseley introduced him to me as Dr. Rivington, and the two men immediately withdrew into the adjoining apartment. The door between the two rooms was slightly ajar, and I could hear their voices murmuring in consultation. I could also get a glimpse of the figure of a tall man lying on a sofa. A nurse, in a conventional dress, was flitting backwards and forwards. The doctors continued to consult together in a distant part of the room; the patient lay motionless. I was just beginning to wonder why the man was not put under the influence of the anæsthetic, when Wesseley hurriedly re-entered the room where I was sitting, shutting the door behind him.
“What is to be done?” he said, in a voice which betrayed some slight irritation. “Rivington is behaving in the most extraordinary manner—he absolutely refuses to administer the anæsthetic.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I say. He is one of the best anæsthetists in London, and I never saw him hesitate before. He came into the room behind the patient, gave him a glance, changed colour quite perceptibly, and motioned to me to accompany him to the other end of the room. He then explained in a whisper that Colonel Normanton happens to be an acquaintance of his own, that he has a strong personal dislike to him, that he considers him to be a bad subject for anæsthetics, and that, under the circumstances, nothing will induce him to administer the chloroform. I had no time to over-ride his ridiculous scruples, for I am due at another operation within an hour; he was obstinate as a mule, and has just left the house. The unfortunate Colonel is wondering at the unaccountable delay.”
“Can I not help you?” I asked. “You remember that I was anæsthetist at my hospital for the last year of my residence. I think I can manage the case, if you are inclined to trust me.”
“Capital, Gilchrist,” cried Wesseley, relief and delight now beaming over his countenance. “Once again I repeat that you have come in the very nick of time. Will you come with me into the next room?”
I willingly complied, and entered the operating-room with the surgeon.
The patient was still lying perfectly quiet, with a drawn, anxious expression very perceptible on his face. The nature of the operation about to be performed was of the deepest interest to me, but the matter I had in hand was to produce unconsciousness, and when I had got Colonel Normanton into that condition, to watch him with the most undeviating attention.