"What the deuce do you mean," said the surgeon, "by countermanding my orders?"
"Well," replied the Lieutenant, pointing to me, "that man is drunk."
"That remains to be seen," answered the surgeon, "and I am the best judge of that. I should strongly advise you not to interfere with my orders another time."
Thereupon he turned on his heel, and telling me to follow him, hurried up to the dispensary. There he laid me on a sofa, and asked me what was the matter. I told him that I had undergone fifteen days' Salle de Police, and felt perfectly worn out. He felt my pulse and took my temperature, which was very high.
"You are pretty bad, my boy," he said, "and I am going to send you to hospital."
I thanked him warmly, and told him how grateful I felt, pointing out that had it not been for him I might have been disgraced for ever in the regiment.
"Yes," he said, "I don't like the way they are treating you, and—I will tell you what—whenever you are bullied come to me, and I will excuse you from work. I respect you because you went through your last punishment without ever coming to the medical visit, and, in future, if you don't feel well, you have only got to come here and tell me what you don't feel fit for, and I will inform the Colonel." He added, "Troopers used to be punished only when they deserved it, but now the Salle de Police seems to have become a regular institution, and I don't like it—that is all I can say." He concluded by telling me that the dispensary Corporal would make out my Billet de l'Hôpital, and that he himself would come and see how I was that same evening.