Or
"Garret,—you remember Garret,—he was a good chap. Used to let each Surgical Registrar have half a day with him."
Christopher was conscious of a sharp and expectant thrill. He said nothing, but just stood still, feeling a little puzzled by the way the shrewd brown eyes of Orange were looking up at him.
"Do you think you could carry on for me?"
Kit took a moment to answer.
"I should love to, sir. It depends"
He noticed a queer twitching of Mr. Orange's eyelids. Love to, would he? Of course. But the word love was not a mere conventional exaggeration.
"What's worrying you, Sorrell?"
"I think I am up to tackling any ordinary job,—but supposing"
"Don't funk it. No,—you won't."
"You mean to allow me to be responsible, sir?"
"Of course. Going to lie down. Send for me if you are not sure about anything."
He scrutinized Kit's suddenly flushed face.
"You'll do."
"It's very good of you, sir."
Orange nodded at him, gave him something like a grim smile, and took his misshapen body back into the board-room.
Kit passed a dramatic and an historic day. He performed three minor operations, with the hard-bitten, kinky-haired casualty-sister assisting him with critical and voiceless composure. About three o'clock he had to tackle a rather bad casualty, a compound fracture of the thigh with a pumping artery and a mass of lacerated tissue.
"Better let Mr. Orange know," said the nurse.
Kit was frowning.
"Don't want to worry him; unless it's necessary."
He was too supremely interested to be nervous, too full of a quiet exultation in the presence of the live crisis and
