Kindling by Nevil Shute Read Free Book Online Page B

all comfy now?”
    “That’s all right,” said Warren feebly. “I’ll be all right here. Get me to a doctor.”
    “Won’t be two jiffys now, chum,” said the driver. He got down from the lorry and put up the tail-board; then with a jerk the vehicle moved on.
    Warren lay wedged between the sacks, dazed and in great pain. He had lost his collar and his shirt wasopen at the neck, for which he felt relief; presently an emptiness about his clothes made him feel his breast pocket, to discover that his wallet was gone. The fact impressed itself upon his consciousness but did not worry him; he was in too much pain for that.
    Presently the lorry came to a standstill and he heard the driver speaking from the cab. “Got a bloke in the back what’s taken bad. Picked him up on the road, three, four miles back. Sick in the stomach, I reckon. Says he wants to be taken to a doctor. What’ll I do?”
    “Sick in the stomach? Let’s ’ave a look at him.”
    The tail-board was let down, and a constable climbed in on to the sacks. He knelt beside Warren. “What’s all this?” he asked. “Where’s the pain?”
    “In my guts,” said Warren. “It’s serious. Is there a doctor here?”
    “No doctor here,” said the constable. “Did it come on sudden-like? ‘Ave you ever had it before?”
    “I had spasm of it about three days ago,” said Warren. “And then I had another yesterday. Just short ones, they were. Nothing like this.” And then he said suddenly, “I’m going to be sick.” Which he was.
    They watched with interest. “Well,” said the constable at last, “we can’t do nothing for him here. Where you heading for?”
    “Burnton,” said the driver. “I got to dump this load an’ get back to Newcastle to-night.”
    “Going by Sharples?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Better drop him off at the hospital. You know where that is?”
    “Round the back of Palmer Street, ain’t it?”
    “Aye,” said the constable, “that’s right. You drop him off there, and I’ll telephone to say he’s coming.” He produced his notebook, and walked round to the back of the lorry. He took the number carefully, took a few particulars, and the lorry drove on.
    Warren lay jolting on the sacks in a stupor of pain for many miles. Presently he knew that they were entering a town. They drove on for a time, seemingly on cobbled streets. Then the lorry drew up to a standstill, and he heard the driver get down.
    And presently he heard the driver’s voice again. “You’ll want to get a stretcher to him, mate. Sick in the stomach, he is.”
    A porter got into the lorry. “Come, lad,” he said. “Let’s get ye oot o’ this.” Warren found himself assisted from the lorry and handled competently into the hospital. They took him down an echoing corridor and put him in the casualty room, and laid him on an examination couch.
    He wanted to see the lorry driver to thank him, but the man had disappeared. He had no time to lose.
    A very young house surgeon came with a sister; together they examined him, and asked a few questions. His abdomen was rigid as a board. “Peritonitis,” said the young man to the sister. “And yet—I don’t know. Not quite like that, to me.”
    He straightened up. “All right, get him along to the ward and get him ready. I’ll ring up Dr. Miller.”
    The sister said, “I’d better get the theatre ready. I suppose he’ll want to do it at once.”
    “I should think so. You’d better give him a shot—quarter grain of the hydrochloride.”
    He turned to Warren. “You’ve got to have an operation,” he said. “You’ve never had one before, have you? Well, it’s nothing to worry about. But we’ll have to do it at once.”
    “All right,” said Warren. He had known for the last hour that this was coming.
    The sister came with a hypodermic, wiped his arm deftly, and gave him the injection. Then he was wheeled in a chair down a long corridor and into a ward, and to a bed surrounded by a screen.