"
"'Tis Dr. Sitgreaves," said Henry Wharton, quickly, though with
difficulty suppressing a laugh. "The multitude of his engagements,
to-day, has prevented his usual attention to his attire."
"Your pardon, sir," added Wellmere, very ungraciously proceeding to lay
aside his coat, and exhibit what he called a wounded arm.
"If, sir," said the surgeon dryly, "the degrees of Edinburgh--walking
your London hospitals--amputating some hundreds of limbs--operating on
the human frame in every shape that is warranted by the lights of
science, a clear conscience, and the commission of the Continental
Congress, can make a surgeon, I am one."
"Your pardon, sir," repeated the colonel stiffly. "Captain Wharton has
accounted for my error."
"For which I thank Captain Wharton," said the surgeon, proceeding coolly
to arrange his amputating instruments, with a formality that made the
colonel's blood run cold. "Where are you hurt, sir? What! is it then
this scratch in your shoulder? In what manner might you have received
this wound, sir?"
"From the sword of a rebel dragoon," said the colonel, with emphasis.
"Never. Even the gentle George Singleton would not have breathed on you
so harmlessly." He took a piece of sticking plaster from his pocket, and
applied it to the part.
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