“Got through, Alf?”
“No: eyesight ain't good enough.”
So it went on for half-an-hour.
Then came my turn.
“Ha!” said the little doctor, “this is the sort we want,” and he rubbed his gold-rimmed glasses on his handkerchief. “Chest, thirty-four—thirty-seven,” said the doctor, tapping with his tape-measure, “How did yer do that?”
“What, sir?” said I, gasping, for I was trying to blow my chest out, or burst.
“Had breathing exercises?”
“No, sir—I'm a scout.”
“Ha!” said he, and noticed my knees were brown with sunburn because I always wore shorts.
I passed the eyesight test, and they took my name down, and my address, occupation and age.