"All what?" demanded the escort, with a touch of wonder.
"All this damage," explained the doctor patiently. "Has he been fighting?"
"Lord bless ye, no, sir!" whispered the escort, hoarse with horror. "'E ain't been fightin'. Bill Dawkins is a gentleman!"
"Then," cried the doctor, at last permitting himself to show heat, "who in the devil's name has been mutilating him?"
The escort looked blank. "Mutinate—mutinate," he repeated thoughtfully. "I ain't 'eard about that, sir."
The doctor sighed, and soaked some dressing. "Could you think carefully," he then suggested, "and tell me how he came to meet this trouble?"
"What trouble?" murmured the escort. He put his head on one side and opened his mouth, and his resemblance to an inquisitive owl was pathetic. "What trouble do you mean, sir?"
"This," cried the frenzied gentleman, pointing wildly to Mr. Dawkins's wounds.
"'Is 'ead, do ye mean, sir?" demanded the escort.... "O-o-o-h! That don't matter, sir.... It's 'is birthday."
"Oh," said the doctor, applying stitches, "I see. A celebration?"