“Is it true, sir?—is it true?” he continued, getting blue and red.
“It is, sir,” was the reply.
“And what do you mean by it, sir? What do you mean by it?” he exclaimed, waxing more and more wroth.
“I thought, sir—” I began.
“You thought, sir!”
“Yes, sir,” continued I, my Highland blood getting uppermost, “I did think that, the case being one of ulcer of an erysipelatous nature, I was—”
“Erysipelatous ulcer!” interrupting me. “Oh!” said he, “that alters the case. Why did you not say so at first? I beg your pardon;” and he trotted off again.
“All right,” thought I, “old Gruff. I guess you are sorry you spoke.”
But although there are not wanting medical officers in the service who, on being promoted to staff-surgeon, appear to forget that ever they wore less than three stripes, and can keep company with no one under the rank of commander, I am happy to say they are few and far between, and every year getting more few and farther between.
It is a fine thing to be appointed for, say three or four years to a home hospital; in fact, it is the assistant-surgeon’s highest ambition. Next, in point of comfort, would be an appointment at the Naval Hospital of Malta, Cape of Good Hope, or China.