—S. Weir Mitchell.
“Who am I?” asked John Armitage soberly.
He tossed the stick of a match into the fireplace, where a pine-knot smoldered, drew his pipe into a glow and watched Oscar screw the top on a box of ointment which he had applied to Armitage’s arm. The little soldier turned and stood sharply at attention.
“Yon are Mr. John Armitage, sir. A man’s name is what he says it is. It is the rule of the country.”
“Thank you, Oscar. Your words reassure me. There have been times lately when I have been in doubt myself. You are a pretty good doctor.”
“First aid to the injured; I learned the trick from a hospital steward. If you are not poisoned, and do not die, you will recover—yes?”
“Thank you, Sergeant. You are a consoling spirit; but I assure you on my honor as a gentleman that if I die I shall certainly haunt you. This is the fourth day. To-morrow I shall throw away the bandage and be quite ready for more trouble.”
“It would be better on the fifth—”
“The matter is settled. You will now go for the mail; and do take care that no one pots you on the way. Your death would be a positive loss to me, Oscar. And if any one asks how My Majesty is—mark, My Majesty—pray say that I am quite well and equal to ruling over many kingdoms.”
“Yes, sire.”