"I never expected bad treatment—the English wounded are not treated badly by us either."
"Aren't they! That's all he knows about it!... Ask him if he likes war."
"O God, no—war's good for the rich, not for the poor."
"I thought these Huns loved warfare—ask him if he thinks Germany will win."
"Germany's in a bad way—Ach Gott, don't ask me any more, give me something to stop my pain!"
"That's the retort diplomatic! Send him off to sleep—let's get the job done."
When the man had lost consciousness, Captain Grierson, the anæsthetist, put the chloroform bottle aside, jumped down from the stool, and searched the pockets of his helpless patient. He did not find much, however, only a few letters and picture postcards until he came to a deep trouser pocket from which he drew a big German pipe.
"Not a bad souvenir," he said, as he put it into his own pocket and returned to his stool. Of course this was not stealing, it was merely "scrounging" or "pinching" or "collecting souvenirs," which is an entirely different thing.
For a time the surgeons worked silently, amputating arms and legs, holding the bare skin between two fingers and cutting the flesh, throwing bleeding bits on to the floor, dressing and bandaging stumps and excised wounds.
Captain Calthrop was grumbling at the tedium of the work when his anæsthetist lit upon a happy thought and said: