The Return of the Indian by Lynne Reid Banks Read Free Book Online Page A

he isyour size. They wouldn’t be able to help him. Everything would be too big for him. Don’t you see?”
    Matron closed her eyes for a moment, swayed visibly (Omri stretched out a hand to catch her) and then righted herself with an effort.
    “This is exceedingly peculiar,” she said, “to say the very least. I don’t profess to understand what has happened to me. But still … press on! What do you suggest?”
    “Could he hold out until tomorrow?”
    She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Most unwise.”
    Omri’s heart sank. “Couldn’t—couldn’t
you
do it?”
    The Matron started violently. “I—? Perform the task of a surgeon? Such a thing would be unthinkable. The etiquette of the medical profession absolutely forbids it.”
    “But if it didn’t?” “What do you mean?”
    “I mean—
could
you do it, if you were allowed to?”
    “‘Allowed to’! It is not a matter of permission.”
    “Well, then?—You see,” Omri said, and now the same imploring note crept into his voice as had been in Bright Stars’ eyes, “there’s no one else.”
    Matron turned and stared down at Little Bear for a long moment.
    “But I have no equipment,” she said at last.
    Patrick threw back his head with a groan. “That’s true… Of course! No one can operate without instruments! Why didn’t we think of that?”
    “I did think of it,” said Omri. “We’ve got instruments. Sort of.”
    Patrick turned to gape at him. “Where?”
    For answer, Omri reached again for the plastic figure which had once been Tommy. Silently he put him back into the cupboard and turned the key. When he opened the door, there once again was the neat pile of clothes, the boots—and the bag with the red cross on it.

Chapter 8
The Operation
    “You’re
brilliant
,” breathed Patrick as Omri delicately picked up the tiny object. With his free hand he overturned one of the boxes in which the plastic figures had been stored, spread Kleenex on it, and set the bag in the middle.
    Matron bustled over with a swish of starched apron. She started a little at the sight of the battered old bag, but not half as much as she did when she opened it. She fairly reeled back.
    “Are you seriously suggesting that I pull bullets out of a man’s back with this antiquated collection of museum pieces!” she almost shrieked.
    “Are they so very different from what you use today?” asked Omri desperately.
    Matron gingerly plucked a tiny hypodermic syringe from the bag and held it up like a dead rat between finger and thumb.
    “Look at it! Just look! I ask you!”
    “Matron,” Omri said earnestly. “You don’t seem to understand.
That’s all there is.
It’s the best we can manage. If you can’t do it, he’ll die. Our friend. Please! All we ask is that you try.”
    Matron gave Omri an enigmatic look. Then she took hold of Tommy’s bag and briskly emptied it on the padded table. All sorts of microscopic things came out. The boys could just make out the rolls of bandages, dressings, dark bottles, and instruments packed in flat cases. She examined these very minutely and then straightened up and said, “Of course this is some kind of nightmare. But even in nightmares, it is my policy to do my best.”
    Omri and Patrick clutched each other.
    “You mean, you’ll do it?”
    “If you can provide me with an operating table, a bright light, some disinfectant, and a strong cup of tea.”
    Omri could, and did, provide all those things. By this time it was one o’clock in the morning and the whole household was fast asleep, but he tiptoed downstairs and fetched disinfectant, cotton, some clean handkerchiefs, and an electric kettleful of boiling water. He also detached the cap from a tube of toothpaste and washed it out. That was for a mug. Then he made some strong tea with a tea bag and added milk and sugar. He hoped shetook sugar. He carried all this on a tray up the stairs very quietly.
    When he returned to his room, Patrick had fixed up the box as