"No, sir, me 'eart's thrutched up," says the examinee. Then, while the Board perforates him from head to foot for some seconds with a basilisk stare of unbelief, he dribbles out at intervals, in a voice that bespeaks falling hope, such ineffective addenda as "Can't get me sleep" and "Not a smile in me."
"Very picturesque, indeed," says the senior expert in doubting. "We'll see to that 'thrutched' heart of yours. Kardiagraph case. Next man."
The suspect, duly spat upon, slinks out. The next man takes his place at the table. The president gives him the Dogberry eye that means: "Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves; and it will go near to be thought so shortly." What he says is: "Another old hospital bird? Eh? Now, hadn't you better get back to work before you're in trouble?"
The target of this consputation is almost convinced by its force that he must be guilty of something, if only he knew what it was. Still, he repeats authority's last diagnosis as well as he can: "Mine's Arthuritic rheumatism, sir. An' piles."
"Fall out and strip. Next man." While the next is taking his stand the presiding M.O. has been making a note, and does not look up before saying "Well, what's the matter with you—besides rheumatism?"
"No rheumatism, sir. And nothing else." The voice is as stiff as it dares.
The presiding M.O. seems taken aback. Why, here is a fellow not playing up to him! Making a nasty break in the long line of cases that fed his darling cynicism so well! Flat burglary as ever was committed. The second member of the Board comes to life and begins in a tone that savours of dissatisfaction: "Well, you're the first man——"
"I'm an N.C.O., sir." The young lance-sergeant's voice is again about as stiff as is safe. Quite safe, though, this time. For the presiding M.O. is a Regular. Verbal points of military correctitude are the law and the prophets to him. He cannot be wholly sorry when junior colleagues, temporary commissioners, slip up on even the least of these shreds of orange-peel. Like Susan Nipper, he knows his place—"me being a permanency"—and thinks that "temporaries" ought to know theirs. So he amends the outsider's false start to: "You're the first N.C.O. or man who has come before us this morning and not said he had rheumatism."
The sergeant, whom I have known for some days as a choleric body, holds his tongue, having special reasons just now not to risk a court-martial. "Well," the president snaps as if in resentment of this self-control, "what is the matter with you?"
"Fit as can be, sir."