He hurried to the doctor’s quarters, and found that gentleman busy with a case of instruments, open before him.
“Look here, Long,” he said; “did you ever see such a wretched country as this? Everything rusts; look at my instruments.”
“Yes, sir, it is terrible; such fine steel too.”
“Fine steel? There isn’t a better case in the army. I could do anything with these tools.”
Tom Long shuddered as he glanced at the long, fearfully keen knives, and the saw—so horribly suggestive of taking off arms and legs.
Doctor Bolter saw it, and smiled to himself.
“Come to say good-bye, Long?” he said, as he stuffed some lint into a pouch, with some bandages. “I’m not a lighting man, and don’t mean to be killed.”
“No, sir. I came to ask you to let me go—to give me a certificate, saying I am quite well enough.”
“But you are not, my dear boy. You are too weak.”
“Weak, sir? No, I feel as strong as a lion. Let me go, doctor.”