CHAPTER II.

A NARROW ESCAPE AND A WONDERFUL EXPERIMENT.

It was the third day of January. A fearful storm had been raging for two days, and now the weather was growing intensely cold.

It was late in the evening when a young man arrived at an hotel in Boston, and registered as Truman H. Winthrop, M.D., New York city.

He was apparently twenty-five years of age, a tall, massively formed fellow, yet so finely proportioned that he did not really seem so powerful as he was. A fine brow surmounted by a wealth of curling brown hair crowned a keen, clear-cut, and intelligent face. A pair of deep blue eyes gleamed with a kindly light, yet seemed to take in, with swift comprehensive glances, everything going on around him; while about the sensitive mouth there lingered an expression of sweetness, which betokened a tender heart and warm sympathies, though the somewhat heavy chin betrayed an undercurrent of great strength and firmness of character.

“Can you give me a comfortable room,” he inquired of the clerk, after he had entered his name upon the hotel register.

“We are very full to-night,” was the answer, “and the best that I can do for you will be to give you a room on the third floor over the hall.”

“Hum,” mused the young physician, with a somewhat disappointed look on his fine face. “How is it heated?” he asked, after a moment of thought.

“By a stove. It was originally used as a storeroom, and steam was not carried into it when we refitted the hotel,” replied the clerk.

“Well, if that is the best that you can give me, I shall be obliged to put up with it for one night, as the storm is too severe for me to go out to hunt up another,” the stranger returned with an air of resignation.

“I can do better to-morrow, perhaps, as some of our guests may be leaving,” said the clerk.

“All right, you may order a fire to be lighted at once, so that my room will be warm by the time I am through supper,” responded the young physician, and then he turned to follow a servant to the dining-room.

Half an hour later he retired to his room and to bed, having first given orders to be called at eight o’clock the next morning.

“Make sure that I am awake,” he said to the call-boy, as he went upstairs, “for I have an important engagement at nine.”

It was well for him that he gave this order, or he would never have opened his eyes in this world again.

Promptly at eight the next morning the boy rapped upon the door.

There was no response.

Again he knocked, and more vigorously.

Still no answer from within.

“Hallo there!” he cried, at the same time using his knuckles with redoubled energy. “Wake up, can’t you?”

But the occupant of the little room over the hall was either a very heavy sleeper, or something was wrong with him.

The man put his ear to the keyhole, and could plainly detect the sound of heavy breathing.

“Something is amiss; nobody could remain in any natural sleep during such a racket as I’ve made,” muttered the man, an anxious look coming into his face.

He hastened below, and reported to the clerk, and together they hurried back to the physician’s room and tried a second time to arouse him.

It was in vain, however; there was not the slightest movement within, although they could plainly detect the heavy breathing of the man.

“He’s in a fit of some kind, and we shall have to force the lock or break the door,” said the clerk.

Both men put their shoulders against it and used all their strength for this purpose; but in vain, for the door was stronger than they.

A step-ladder was then brought, and a boy with a rope around his body was sent up to remove the transom, then told to crawl through, when they would let him down inside the room to unlock the door.

This was soon accomplished, and the moment the clerk stepped inside the door he comprehended the situation.

The room was full of coal gas.

The man upon the bed was asphyxiated.

Every window in the room was closed, and the damper in the stove-pipe had, by either the force of a strong draught or a sudden gust of wind, been shut, and thus the fumes from the burning coal had been thrown into the room.

The young doctor lay flat upon his back, breathing stertorously, while his face was ghastly, his skin clammy, and his pulse alarmingly feeble.

By this time quite an excitement prevailed on that floor of the hotel, and a crowd of curious and awe-stricken people had gathered about, the proprietor among them.

“A doctor—is there a doctor in the house?” cried some one who had not been quite so fully paralyzed by the appalling discovery as the others.

This aroused the proprietor to a sense of his duty.

“No, there is none,” he said, “and none nearer than—street, that I know of. But,” a bright idea suddenly occurring to him, “the City Hospital is near by; it’ll take no longer to get him there than to get a physician here, and they have every facility there for every kind of treatment.”

This plan seemed the most feasible of any, and accordingly the young doctor was warmly wrapped in blankets, a carriage hastily summoned, and both the proprietor and his clerk accompanied him to the hospital.

Immediately on their arrival, the most energetic measures were adopted for the man’s recovery, although the attending physicians looked grave and doubtful as they remarked the failing condition of their patient.

They gave him hypodermic injections of ether and brandy, besides administering other remedies. His stomach was emptied of its contents, and then a tube, connected with a great jar of oxygen, was inserted in his mouth, so that he could breathe pure oxygen instead of air.

But all these efforts proved unavailing, and the doctors then held a hurried consultation as to whether it would be wise and best to try, as a last resort, the transfusion of blood.

“He cannot live as he is—it is his only chance, and it is worth trying—if we can find any one who is willing to give up blood enough to save him,” the head physician remarked, as he regarded with a sorrowful glance the splendid physique and intellectual face of the man before him.

He wanted to save his life, and he would gladly have given all that was necessary of his own blood, but he knew that he alone could perform that delicate and difficult operation successfully.

Then they began a hunt for some strong, well person among the nurses, who would sacrifice some of his life-current.

But it seemed likely to prove a fruitless search, as no one appeared willing to submit to the experiment of having his veins opened for the benefit of another.

One man sullenly muttered that he “hadn’t any more blood than he needed himself.” Others stared vacantly at the doctor, then shook their heads, turned on their heels and walked away, and it seemed as if the undertaking must be relinquished and the patient left to die; he seemed very near death now, for every time he drew in a breath of oxygen his body shook like a leaf.

“What shall we do? I cannot let him die,” the physician cried in an agony of anxiety, for every moment was precious.

He turned away in disgust from the strong men who had refused his appeal, walked to the door and looked out into the long corridor.

No one was in sight, but the next moment a light step in the distance warned him that some one was approaching, and then one of the nurses from the women’s department came tripping around the corner from another hall.

“Ah, Dr. Hunt!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him, “I was just seeking you—the head nurse in ward twelve wants you to come there immediately—a new and critical case has just arrived.”

“I cannot go at present,” the physician answered. “I am in the greatest extremity myself, just now, over a case of life or death, and only for the want of a little pure blood which no one will give.”

Salome Howland, for she was the nurse, was all interest at once, and, lifting her eager, earnest face to his, asked:

“What is it—tell me, please?”

She was a favorite with Dr. Hunt, and he explained the case to her.

“He’s a magnificent fellow, and it is the greatest pity in the world to let him die, without giving him this chance,” he said in conclusion.

“And isn’t there anybody who will make so simple a sacrifice for him?” the girl inquired, a curl of scorn wreathing her lips.

“No. I can’t find a man among all the nurses who has courage enough to let me open a vein. I’d give my own blood gladly, only there is no one else who can conduct the operation. Heavens! I am getting desperate enough to gag and bind some one and forcibly take his blood,” Dr. Hunt concluded, as he gnawed his under lip savagely.

There was a moment of silence; then the fair girl before him said, quietly:

“Dr. Hunt, I will give this young man a chance for his life—you shall take from my veins all the blood that you need.”

The physician started and regarded her with astonishment. He had not thought of calling upon a woman for his experiment.

“Child!” he cried, “do you mean it?”

“I certainly do, doctor.”

“But,” scanning her face critically, “you do not look as if you had any blood to spare.”

“Why—because I am pale?” she asked, then added: “That is natural to me, as you ought to know by this time, though, perhaps, the excitement of the moment has intensified my paleness a trifle. But I am well and strong, and I know my blood is pure. I have never been ill. I have no taint of disease about me. I have perfect confidence in you, Dr. Hunt, and I know that if I am well cared for afterward my veins will soon be so replenished as to make up for the blood that you take from me. Do not hesitate—do not waste precious time, but save this man’s life if you can,” she concluded, with an earnestness, yet with a calmness which won both his gratitude and admiration.

He laid his fingers upon her pulse.

It beat full and strong beneath them, with the flowing of the pure vigorous current of her life.

“You are a noble girl!” he cried, as he ushered her into the room from which he had but just come. “There is the man who needs your blood!”

Dr. Hunt immediately dispatched a runner to tell the head nurse of the ward Salome served in that he required her services for the present, and her place must be filled by another.

Then he hastened the preparations for his vital experiment.

A second cot was moved close beside the one on which the young physician lay, and a tall screen drawn around them, while all other necessary appliances were hastily arranged.

Salome was then led forward to the patient.

The girl gazed upon him for a moment, taking in at a glance his grand physique, his noble head and fine face, and a faint flush stole into her cream-like cheeks.

“Oh, he must not die!” she cried in a low, intense tone, as she lifted a pair of appealing eyes to the head physician. “Save him—save him, and be quick, Dr. Hunt, or it may be too late!”

Then, without a thought of self, she lay down upon the cot prepared for her, and allowed her sleeve to be cut from her dress, and her arm to be tightly bandaged about the fleshy portion, even assisting in these operations herself, without a tremor of fear or dread.

The arm of Dr. Winthrop was prepared in the same way; then a hypodermic injection of cocaine was administered to Salome, to deaden the pain, and all was ready for the final act.

With a firm and skilful hand, Dr. Hunt made an opening about two inches in length in Dr. Winthrop’s right arm, on the outside, just at the bevel in the elbow. He cut away until he freed the median cephalic vein from the surrounding tissues, after which he treated Salome’s left arm in the same manner.

Then taking a long rubber tube, with a bulb in the centre and a sharp-pointed steel tube at each end, he connected the life-currents of those two human beings lying side by side.

Successive compressions pumped the blood of the brave girl into the veins of the strong but helpless man, and she never flinched or moved once during the operation.

She lay with her eyes fixed in an anxious, eager look upon that ghastly face opposite her, as if her whole soul was concentrated upon the one thought of giving him life.

When some ten or twelve ounces of blood had been infused into the patient, a change began to be perceptible in him; his pulse grew stronger, and he partly regained consciousness.

The physician then withdrew the tubes, tied the veins, and sewed up the wounds in the two arms; but before this work was finished the heroic nurse had fainted from loss of blood and excitement, while, it became evident that the young doctor was steadily improving, and stimulants, mixed with strong beef-tea, were frequently administered to him.

With tears in his eyes, Dr. Hunt himself gathered Salome in his arms, laid her upon a stretcher, and had her carried to one of the best private rooms in the hospital, where, after restoring her to consciousness, he gave her temporarily into the hands of another physician and a competent nurse, while he went back to his other patient.

It was evident that the experiment was destined to prove a success, for he found the young man breathing naturally and conscious, although he could not yet speak.

They continued to give him nourishment and stimulants at frequent intervals throughout the day, and by evening he was much improved, although still weak and languid from the terrible ordeal through which he had passed.

He was able to converse a little with Dr. Hunt, who had worked so faithfully to save him, when he made his last round for the night. He told him that he was a physician from New York city, and had come to Boston at the invitation of a brother physician, to visit the various hospitals of the city, and they had planned to come that very day to the institution where he was now a patient.

He said that he feared his friend must be suffering great anxiety upon his account, as he had agreed to meet him at his office at nine o’clock that morning, and he would not know where to look for him, as he had sent him no word at what hotel he would stop.

Dr. Hunt, appreciating the situation, at once dispatched a messenger to Dr. Cutler, who came early the next morning to the sick man.

But though Dr. Winthrop steadily improved, he was not able to leave his bed for several days; his system had been so poisoned by the noxious gas that it took time to eradicate it.

Meantime, he inquired and learned all about the circumstances attending his critical condition and his almost marvellous restoration.

“That noble girl!” he had exclaimed, upon being told how willingly, even eagerly, Salome Howland had given up her life-blood for him. “She will have my everlasting gratitude. Who is she, and where can I find her when I am able to get away from here?”

“She is one of our nurses,” Dr. Hunt replied, “a young woman of remarkable nerve and strength of character, and eminently fitted for the life she has chosen.”

From this brief description, Dr. Winthrop gained the impression that Salome might have been some strong-minded, rather masculine woman, of perhaps twenty-five or thirty years, with a heart and brain entirely devoted to the study and practice of her profession.

He meant to see her as soon as he was able to leave his room, express his hearty gratitude for the priceless boon she had bestowed upon him, and assure her of his readiness to befriend her or hers to the extent of his power, if she should ever require the services of a friend.

How soon and how strangely such a requirement would be forced on him, he did not dream, neither could he have any suspicion how vitally these incidents were to affect his whole future life.