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Some time in April I received a note from Dr. Eugene Hay, saying he had a case he thought required a laparotomy, and asking me to come to him.
I responded, and found the doctor at what is known as "Dirty Six," a tough suburban resort. In a small cottage, lying on a bed, was a young man apparently 22 years old. He was resting very quietly, his face covered with sweat. Turning him partly on his right side, Dr. Hay showed me the wound of entrance—a bullet hole 3 inches to the left of spinal column and just at lower border of last rib. There was no wound of exit. He had vomited quite a quantity of blood. There was no tenderness; pulse 70 but quite soft, and as stated above, his skin was covered with sweat. I agreed with Dr. Hay that indications pointed to a laparotomy,