“Anything to complain of?”
“Yes,” said Somers. “I’ve had pneumonia three times and been threatened with consumption.”
“Oh. Go over there then.”
So in his stalky, ignominious nakedness he was sent over to another section, where an elderly fool turned his back on him for ten minutes, before looking round and saying:
“Yes. What have you to say?”
Somers repeated.
“When did you have pneumonia?”
Somers answered—he could hardly speak, he was in such a fury of rage and humiliation.
“What doctor said you were threatened with consumption? Give his name.” This in a tone of sneering scepticism.
The whole room was watching and listening. Somers knew his appearance had been anticipated, and they wanted to count him out. But he kept his head. The elderly fellow then proceeded to listen to his heart and lungs with a stethoscope, jabbing the end of the instrument against the flesh as if he wished to make a pattern on it. Somers kept a set face. He knew what he was out against, and he just hated and despised them all.