"Yes," she said, "I will go."
"Forgive my urgency," I murmured. Then she drew back and vanished in
the throng.
In the calm of the untidy dressing-room, with the aid of Alresca's
valet, I made my patient as comfortable as possible on a couch. And
then I had one of the many surprises of my life. The door opened, and
old Toddy entered. No inhabitant of the city of Edinburgh would need
explanations on the subject of Toddy MacWhister. The first surgeon of
Scotland, his figure is familiar from one end of the town to the
other--and even as far as Leith and Portobello. I trembled. And my
reason for trembling was that the celebrated bald expert had quite
recently examined me for my Final in surgery. On that dread occasion I
had made one bad blunder, so ridiculous that Toddy's mood had passed
suddenly from grim ferociousness to wild northern hilarity. I think I
am among the few persons in the world who have seen and heard Toddy
MacWhister laugh.
I hoped that he would not remember me, but, like many great men, he
had a disconcertingly good memory for faces.
"Ah!" he said, "I've seen ye before."
"You have, sir."
"You are the callant who told me that the medulla oblongata--"
"Please--" I entreated.
Perhaps he would not have let me off had not Sir Cyril stood
immediately behind him. The impresario explained that Toddy MacWhister
(the impresario did not so describe him) had been in the audience, and
had offered his services.
"What is it?" asked Toddy, approaching Alresca.
"Fracture of the femur."
"Simple, of course."
"Yes, sir, but so far as I can judge, of a somewhat peculiar nature.
I've sent round to King's College Hospital for splints and bandages."
Toddy took off his coat.
"We sha'n't need ye, Sir Cyril," said he casually.
And Sir Cyril departed.
In an hour the limb was set--a masterly display of skill--and, except
to give orders, Toddy had scarcely spoken another word. As he was
washing his hands in a corner of the dressing-room he beckoned to me.
"How was it caused?" he whispered.
"No one seems to know, sir."
"Doesn't matter much, anyway! Let him lie a wee bit, and then get him
home. Ye'll have no trouble with him, but there'll be no more warbling
and cutting capers for him this yet awhile."
And Toddy, too, went. He had showed not the least curiosity as to
Alresca's personality, and I very much doubt whether he had taken the
trouble to differentiate between the finest tenor in Europe and a
chorus-singer. For Toddy, Alresca was simply an individual who sang
and cut capers.