"Looks deep, and he is bleeding, too." There was a knocking at the door.
"Let him in," cried the Sergeant, "it is the doctor.

Hello, Doctor! Here is something for you all right." The doctor, a tall, athletic young fellow with a keen, intellectual face, pushed his way through the crowd to the corner and dropped on his knees beside the Polak.
"Why, the man is dead!" said the doctor, putting his hand over the Polak's heart.
Even as he spoke, a shudder passed through the man's frame, and he lay still.

The doctor examined the hole in his neck.
"Yes, he's dead, sure enough.

The jugular vein is severed." "Well, here is another, Doctor, who will be dead in a few minutes, if I am not mistaken," said the Sergeant.
"Let me see," said the doctor, turning to Rosenblatt.

"Heavens above!" he cried, as his knees sank in the bloody mud, "it's blood!" He passed round the other side of the unconscious man, got out his syringe and gave him a hypodermic.