Crothers put a lighted candle on the table. Dr. Ambrose examined my swollen ankle. He bound around it a cloth soaked in liniment, and said it would be well in the morning.
"Now, sir," said the colonel, speaking in a brisk, curt manner, "having done our duty by you as a disabled prisoner, we will proceed with your examination. Doctor, it is necessary that this should be taken in writing. You will kindly act as clerk while I question the prisoner."
I opened my mouth to protest and to demand explanation, but the colonel cut me short with a "Be silent, sir, until the time comes for you to speak;" and, rather than be exposed to another such insult, I remained silent. Moreover, the scene amused me somewhat. I was wondering what this strange old man would do next.
Dr. Ambrose drew up my stool—I had taken a seat on the bed—and produced a roll of paper, pen, and small ink-well. His was the deliberation of a military mind provided with time and bent upon doing things well. The colonel stood before me, straight and stern.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Arthur West," I replied. "This is the second answer to the same question."
"Your home?"
"City of New York, State of New York."
"Your age?"
"Twenty-seven."