The Surgery
As it turned out, the wound hadn’t healed properly, and purulence had set in. But the doctor had been able to clean out Tony’s leg and pack it well, and he provided us a wheeled chair to bring home.
Somehow, reporters had learned we were there, all crowding around as I wheeled Tony to the carriage.
“Are you in any danger?”
“None,” Tony said. “An issue with the wound is all. I should be perfectly well in no time.”
A clamor of questions.
I said, “If you please, sirs, my husband’s just been with the ether-man. I’d like to get him home to rest.”
They backed off, tipping their hats and murmuring apologies. Tony got into the carriage on his own, to the tune of hundreds of cameras. I got in after him, and once the carriage went into motion, he smiled. “You have a way with them.
