“Can’t guess,” said I, fishing out a bit of ice from the bottom of my emptied glass; “unless your man was skewered on one of those wooden plugs.”
“That’s not so wide as it might be,” laughed Bones, “for I found a stylographic pen—yes, sir; a stylographic pen!—tightly driven into the muscles of his neck. Regular hypodermic injection of ink, by ginger! That proved the pen mightier than the sword, eh?”
“So it would seem,” said I. “But whose pen was it?”
“I never found out,” said the surgeon. “Whoever it was that got excited enough to shoot it away was too much ashamed to claim it afterwards, and I still have it.
“Well, that’s nearly all the story of the war with Italy. We held the field until Elliott came up with his battalion; and later, Hazeltine came ploughing down the railway with the other eight companies—after which, of course, peace reigned supreme. I daresay you remember the court of inquiry on Curtis, and the newspaper discussion about the whole business?”
“Yes,” said I, rising from my chair, after a glance at my watch; “and I remember reading that Curtis came near getting into uncomfortably hot water for taking the law so calmly into his hands.”
“Humph! That was all very well,” said the doctor, rising and going towards the spot where he had tossed his coat. “But if those who questioned Curtis’ authority to do as he did only could have seen what I had the privilege of seeing, they’d have chipped in to buy him a presentation sword, instead of criticising his actions so freely. Well, I must dine somewhere, I suppose, and I think your club will do me.” And we slipped quietly down the stairs, leaving Sam still sleeping.