"What d'you mean?" asked the surgeon.
"You might cut off the sound foot, by mistake."
"All right," said he smiling. "That's the spirit we want. We will do it in a couple of hours. Try to sleep in the meantime."
The next time you have an opportunity, Mr. Reader, you make an effort to sleep with such a prospect before you. A cripple; I would be a cripple. What would life be in future? It is not such a very easy thing to stand on two feet, but on one! You must be a virtuoso for that ... or an acrobat. Anyhow I would be out of the ghastly business. For I may tell it now, it was hellish, altogether.
But at last, it was over for me. I had done my bit.—Done my bit—Done my bit.—And I repeated twenty, fifty, a hundred times that "Done my bit" like an engine that says the same thing unceasingly. Yes, I would go home, back to Blighty. Done my bit.—Done my bit.—What would dad say? Poor dad! He would feel it more than I. He would tremble when he saw my name in the casualty list. And he would cry and be proud that I had done my bit.—Done my bit.—Done my bit.—And then he would buy an artificial foot for me, the best he could find. In fact he did, and I am not so much to be pitied as you may think. Really not. And the mater ... she would scold me, no doubt. In fact, she did it too:
"My poor Patrick," was her first word, "how can one be such an awkward bungler? What did you do with your foot?"
"I apologize, mother," I answered, "I have mislaid it. I must have left it in France. Do you want me to go back and fetch it?"
Thus, you see, I could not sleep during these two hours, as I had been told to.
Suddenly, as I was lying there, I heard a voice, a very faint voice to my right, calling me: