Horace North was more of the student than the athlete, and he felt the
blood rushing to his head--a strange sensation of vertigo which he could
have aptly described in writing, and thoroughly expressed, with all due
detail, the action going on by the compression of certain veins and an
artery. But for a few moments, in the _melee_, he could do nothing to
free himself of the savage grip, which threatened to injure him for
life, if it did not quite destroy.
But science is a fine backer of brute force. A man with little muscle
is the equal of a giant when both are armed with sword or pistol; and
could Horace North have brought his science to bear in the shape of
galvanism or some anaesthetic, he would have had the burly giant at his
mercy instead of rapidly losing his senses.
Galvanism was, however, not at hand, the opportunity to administer a
dose of ether or chloroform was also wanting, and as one of the young
doctor's hands vainly grasped the ruffian's sinewy wrist, the other fell
nearly nerveless upon the table against which he was borne.
Here, fortunately, he found the much-needed help of science in the shape
of a pestle of marble comfortably reposing in its native mortar.
Horace North had often used a pestle in peace; he now used it in war,
for his fingers closed upon the wooden handle, the heavy weapon
described the arc of a circle, there was a sounding rap, half an oath--
barely that--and the big ruffian fell all in a heap upon the floor.
For a few moments Horace North felt dazed, but the fighting instinct of
the man was now roused, and as a couple of the leader's friends came at
him to avenge their comrade's fall, one uttered a yell as the pestle was
dashed in his face, and the other a howl as it came down with a crack
upon his collarbone, both being rendered _hors de combat_, while the
doctor now bestrode the prostrate body of the old surgeon, and kept the
rest at bay.
Just at this time there was a burst of cheering, for the students were
warming to the fray and fighting shoulder to shoulder. The mob,
disheartened by their leader's fall, began to give way. The atmosphere
of the lecture-hall was evidently too warm, and their retrograde
movement rapidly became a rout, in which they were swept bodily out of
the place by door and window, too much governed by the laws of
self-preservation to think even of those who were down.
Then, as the last scoundrel was driven out, and a tremendous cheer arose
from the victors, a strong body of police marched into the hall, well
buttoned up and beautifully cool, to find that the work was done--all
save that of marching off half-a-dozen dizzy, unwashed savages to the
cooling cell.
"Better, sir?"
"Eh? Better? Yes--a little contused. Water! Thank you. Yes; better
now. Rather rough proceedings."
The old man looked round rather piteously, till his eyes lighted upon
the young doctor.
"Ah! you, Mr North. I remember now. Thank you. Would you mind
helping me to my carriage? I'm rather giddy."
The task was done: the old man being helped to the hospital, and through
it to a private entrance, where his carriage was in attendance, away
from the crowd.
"That's right. Come home with me, Mr North. I should like a few words
with you, if you would not mind."
Horace North gladly entered the carriage, for he thought the old man not
fit to go alone, and in the excitement at the hospital no one paid him
the slightest attention.
"Now come to my room," said the old man, as they were set down at his
residence in Harley Street. "Hurt? Oh, no!--a trifle. I want to talk
to you about your plans. We'll have a cup of coffee, a cigar, and a
chat."
That chat in the great surgeon's study lasted till daybreak, and then
Horace North walked back to his hotel with his brain on fire. For, with
his ideas to a certain extent endorsed by the great authority he had
just quitted, he saw himself on the eve of a grand discovery, one which
should immortalise his name and benefit his fellow-creatures to a vast
extent.
"It is like taking a plunge into the unknown," he cried, as he walked
hurriedly on, excited beyond measure. For Horace North was like the
rest of the world--blind as to what would happen. Had he been
otherwise, he would have buried his secret thoughts for ever sooner than
have faced that which was to come.