He always felt a great deal of interest about compound dislocations of the ankle-joint; because of his conviction that amputation, then so commonly resorted to, was unnecessary. He used to tell several cases in his lectures. One of them we will briefly relate here. It was that of a labouring man, who fell off a scaffold in his own neighbourhood; and, amongst other surgeons, they had sent for Abernethy. When he got to the house, he found, he says, "a poor wee man, lying on his mattress, with a very complete compound dislocation of the ankle-joint. The joint was completely exposed, and the torn skin was overlapping the edge of the bone." He placed the parts in their natural position, and drew the skin out of the rent; and when he had thus adjusted it, as he said, a horrible accident looked as if there had been very little the matter. "Do you think, sir," said the poor little man, "that this can ever get well?" "Yes, verily," said Abernethy. "Do not be out of heart about it; I have known many such cases do well." "Why, sir," said the man, "they have gone for the instruments." "I now found," said Abernethy, "that two other surgeons had seen him, and had determined that it was necessary to amputate. I felt that I had got into an embarrassing predicament, and was obliged to wait until these heroes returned. When they arrived, and saw the man lying so comfortably, they seemed a little staggered: but one of them said, 'Mr. Abernethy, you know the serious nature of these accidents, and can you give us an assurance that this will do well?' I said, 'no, certainly not; but if it does not do well, you can have recourse to amputation afterwards, and my surgical character is pledged no further than this. I give you the assurance that no immediate mischief will come on to endanger the man's life. You may wait and see whether his constitution will allow him to do well.' I added: 'I feel that I am got rather into a scrape; so you must allow me to manage it in my own way.' So I got splints, put up the limb, varnished the plaister, and then told them about sponging it continually, so as never to allow any increase of temperature. Now there are two holds you have on a patient's mind—hope and fear; and I make use of both. So I said, 'If you lie perfectly still, you will do well; and if you move one jot, you will do ill—that's all.'" The remainder of the case need not be given. The man recovered, and saved his limb.