When Ferrier got up, he said, "Skipper, only once more of that for me.
Once more, and no more after. If a raw hand had been there we should
never have lived. Thank goodness you came! You deserve the Albert medal,
and you shall have it too, if I can do anything."
The new patient was gasping heavily, and the whites of his eyes showed.
The skipper explained: "You see, sir, he's got cold through with
snow-water, and he sleeps in his wet clothes same as most of us; but
he's not a strong chap, and it's settled him. He's as hard as a stone
all round, and sometimes he's hot and sometimes he's cold."
"Has he sweated?"
"No, sir; and he's got cramps that double him up."
"Has he spoken lately?"
"Not a word."
"Well now, give me every blanket you can rake up or steal, or get
anyhow."
When the blankets were brought, Ferrier said, "Now I'm going to make him
sweat violently, and then I shall trap him up, as some of you say, and
you must do your best to keep him warm afterwards, or else you may lose
him. When he has perspired enough you must rub him dry, with some muslin
that I'll give you, and then merely wait till he's well."
In that wretched, reeking hole Ferrier improvised a Russian bath with a
blanket or two, a low stool, and a lamp turned down moderately low. He
helped to hold up his man until the sweat came, first in beads, and then
in a copious downpour; he wrapped him up, and did not leave till the
patient professed himself able to get up and walk about.
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