"I don't want a rest," answered the youth. "Maybe I'll be better in the morning, sir."
The doctor thought for a moment, then:
"All right, report to-morrow again," he said. "You're a brave boy. Some, who are not the least ill, whine till one is sick—what's the matter with you?"
"Sore foot, sir," I said, seeing the M.O.'s eyes fixed on me.
"Off with your boot, then."
I took off my boot, placed my foot on a chair, and had it inspected.
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know, sir. It pains me when marching, and sometimes—"
"Have you ever heard that Napoleon said an army marches on its stomach?"
"Yes, sir, when the feet of the army is all right," I answered.