THIS ENGLAND.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 42, 19 February 1927, Page 8

THIS ENGLAND.

V.—THE SURGEON. a s 'Br EDGAR WALLACE.) e v Small boys without tummy pains arc not quit d natural. Especially in that month of the yea e when the orchard is a place of greenish npple spuriously rouged. But in November . . and when passing under rapid review all that wn of his dietary on the previous day without detect ing anything more ache-compelling than Vitalnir ? A. ... - It isn't right. So you nsk for a history of thi '< disagreeable pain that makes a small boy incline r to double up like a jack-knife. And, of course, he is drawlinglv vague. Las e year? Oh, yes, but really not bad; a sort c you know. Once he remembered, when he was in Cau? just a funny sort of ache that went on and 01 , I remembered, too, sitting on the edge of his bc( the temperature 20 below, and the heat turned of; And I lectured him on the gluttony of small boys ® and the horrid things that happened to them wlic j; they eat marachino-nougat before going to bed. But now it is November. "Does that hurt?" If you press a little boy gently to the rigli r of what is euphemistically called his "1)1111011." am 1 he winces painfully, you call in your family doctoi and after he has asked a lot of unconifortabl ? questions and has done his little bit of pressing 1. he looks at you knowingly and says with diaboli I cal cheer!ulness: "Well, my boy, you know what that is?" And, of course, you do. And when vou'v i adjourned with him to your study you ask tli > inevitable question: "Well, whom shall we get?" [ And lie as incvitablv replies: | "Y-Z." \ou knew all the time he was goins to sai "Y-Z," but you ask just to make him testy. H only gets testy on two subjects—the suggestioi ( that you shouldn't call in "Y-Z" and the unbusi nesslike methods of nursing homes. , All this happens if you are a wise father o; husband. If you're unwise, you say. a littli resentfully: "Cant this tiling be cured withoui . an operation? ... 1 must think it over foi a week." If, whilst he is thinking it over, the patieni dies, you say that the doctor "didn't understanr the case," or (this is even more popular) "tin doctor should have seen this coming months ago.' I - or myself, 1 said: "Y-Z, of course." "Why Sit on a Bomb?" And at nine Y-Z's handsome limousine came tt a halt before my humble flat. Y-Z is rather vounj looking, a leisurely and amusing teller of" goo<j stories Fresh-com plexioned, loutish-nosed (vol cannot be very clever if you have a small nose) something of an athlete, I should imagine. There is the small boy, rather amused, on the bed when Y-Z strolls in. hands in pockets. He if rather engaging, knows boys' talk backward* (which is a little more intelligent and purer thar mans talk), strikes a very high note of confidence. Back he strolls to the study, hands in pockets, "Doesn't seein very bad, but it ought to comc out. Going abroad, are you?" He shakes his head at this. "It might bo all right—but whv sit on a bomb?" I agree. J\hcn? The doctor, a foreseeing man. as well as the greatest O.l\ in London, has already booked a room. He confirms this by telephone. Y-Z, the surgeon, produces his engagement book. It is alarmingly full. "Let him go in to-morrow; we'll do it on the next morning. What about ten o'clock?" The doctor thinks ten is a good time. A telephone inquiry. Dr. Z. is doing one at ten. The great doctor grows a little choleric (he must sound terrible on the telephone). "Most unbusinesslike. ... I told you ten o'clock. . .." "I'll bet he didn't," says Y-Z sotto voce. " Well, eleven-thirty." "That will suit me," says Y-Z. It suits everybody. Evc'n the small bov on the bed who is promised "treatment"—that* wicked word "operation" is never used. (Next afternoon, as a treat, he goes to the cinema—both of the films have operations in them!) Have you ever sat in the waiting-room of a nursing home and seen the ears come up? The anaesthetist, in a little runabout, with his little black bag (anaesthetists aren't allowed to have Rolls-Royces), and then the doctor with his little black bag, and then the surgeon with his absurdly small equipment. Have you heard them foregather in the hall and talk about the weather, and that poor old soul who popped off last week? "She had a long innings," says somebodv cheerfully. And then the wait—eternities until the brisk anaesthetist conies down looking awfullv pleased with himself. Well, that s a relief. He wouldn't be smiling, or discussing outside the petrol-eating propensities of American cars with my chauffeur, if the small boy had died under the anaesthetic. He would be thinking up a good story for the coroner. (You think things like that when you're in the waitingroom of a nursing home.) And now the surgeon comes in. "I had a bit of a shock." He explains in non-technical language the reason for the shock. If the operation had been delayed a month—a week. He spreads out his hands expressively. He is saving "Good-bye" to the smifll boy. Cheap at a Hundred Guineas. Later that same small boy is on view, propped up by a bed-rest — terribly white, with dark shadows under his big eyes. He is drowsy, a little sick, has a pain in his side which he cannot understand, is not interested in anything. In three days he will be eating boiled chicken, and between proud references to his lost apj>oudix will be devouring the exciting stories of .Mr. Percy Westeruian at the rate of two books a day. That little job cost me a hundred guineas—one hundred guineas for the use of those sure, confident hands for a-quarter of an hour. It is the cheapest service I know. Somebody else has the use of those hands to- I day. Poor Mrs. Brown, who is in the Something Hospital. She is literally a washerwoman, and has never seen a hundred guineas in her life jfnd never will. Somebody gave her a "letter" to the hospital. She also has had queer pains, but the idea of an operation is dreadful. All her neighbours put the corner of their aprons to their mouths in horror at the thought. "It's awful . . . with all them bits o' boys lookin v at you an' practisin' on you, maybe." The bits of boys will be looking on, just as all young surgeons in the making look on, but it will be \-Z in a white wrapper who will "do it." He will talk rather rapidly as he works—perhaps he will tell stories of great surgeons and what they have done; but he will be just as careful, just as expeditious, just as considerate as he was with the small boy. And if Sir X-0 (whose fee sometimes runs into four figures) is performing the jperalion he will give the washerwoman ju>t as .iiuch intensive thought as he gave the Duchess •vhen she was being treated in her West End nirsing home. It would cost the washerwoman nothing. The people who pay big money to big surgeons make the least extravagant outlay of their lives. They are doing something tor Mrs. Brown too. That is the excellence of our system. What he did for Mrs. Brown he did also for her boy son in Flanders—maybe he learnt a lot of his aade there. He has a string of letters after his • laine which suggest military virtue. In queer old jams and chateaux, with shells bur>ting picturesquely and unpleasantly close . Modern surgery is the most wonderful phenomenon of the age. I say this, having seen some if the old surgery. It is worth just what life is worth. Never be afraid to call in Mr. Y-Z. or Sir X.O. or Mr. Z-X. That is, if you want to live.