"Con—found—their—pol—itics,
Frus—trate—their—knav—ish tricks—"
The National Anthem having been roared out from throats kept artificially silent during the week, chapel was dismissed, and it was the immediate duty of the medical officer to take the casual sick. Scott made a rush to his house for a glance at The Observer, which did not reach Westby till midday, and was back in the casualty room by a quarter to twelve. He stood at a desk, with Mackenzie, as chief warder, beside him, and a table covered with pills, potions, and ointments ready to hand. One by one, as their names were called, the patients came up for treatment.
"Mason A29, sir."
Mason advanced, a doleful wisp of a man. "Well, Mason, what's the matter with you?"
"Oh, if you please, sir, I've got such a dreadful cold in my head!" A fruity and exhaustive sniff lent point to the complaint.
"A cold in the head, have you? Give me your hand. Now let's see your tongue. H'm! Dose of No. 7."
No. 7 was poured out, Mason choked over it, and was passed out by the opposite door. "Next," said Scott.
"Gardiner B14, sir."
This was unexpected. Gardiner B14 stood cheerfully submissive, nursing his hand, which was wrapped in his clean Sunday handkerchief.