CHAPTER XXX
No rough-and-ready surgery of the Del Mar sort obtained at Cedarwild, else Michael would not have lived. A real surgeon, skilful and audacious, came very close to vivisecting him as he radically repaired the ruin of a shoulder, doing things he would not have dared with a human but which proved to be correct for Michael.
“ He’ll always be lame,” the surgeon said, wiping his hands and gazing down at Michael, who lay, for the most part of him, a motionless prisoner set in plaster of Paris. “All the healing, and there’s plenty of it, will have to be by first intention. If his temperature shoots up we’ll have to put him out of his misery. What’s he worth?”
“ He has no tricks,” Collins answered. “Possibly fifty dollars, and certainly not that now. Lame dogs are not worth
