''No,'' I said. ''No, no!''
Mrs Sucksby gripped Gentleman''s arm. ''Take your hand away,'' she said. He still clutched his stomach.
''I can''t.''
''Take your hand away!''
She wanted to see how deep the wound went. He grimaced, then drew off his fingers. There came, from a gash in his waistcoat, a bubble—like a bubble of soap, but swirling red—and then a spurt of blood, that fell and struck the floor with a splash—an ordinary splash, like water or soup would make.
Dainty shrieked again. The light wobbled. ''Fuck! Fuck!'' said John.
''Set him down in a chair,'' said Mrs Sucksby. ''Fetch a cloth, for the cut. Fetch something to catch this blood. Fetch something, anything—''
''Help me,'' said Gentleman. ''Help me. Oh, Christ!''
They moved him, awkwardly, with grunts and sighs. They sat him on a hard-backed chair. I stood and looked on, while they did it—held still, I suppose, by horror; though I am ashamed now, that I did nothing. Mr Ibbs plucked a towel from a hook on the wall and Mrs Sucksby knelt at Gentleman''s side and held it against the wound. Each time he moved or took his hand from his stomach, the blood spurted. ''Fetch a bucket or a pot,'' she said again; and finally Dainty ran to the door, caught up the chamber-pot that had been left there, and brought it and set it down beside the chair. The sound of the blood striking the china—and the sight of the red of it, against the white, and against that great dark eye—was worse than anything. Gentleman heard it and grew frightened.