Barry gulped it down, Cameron taking his more slowly, and with evident distaste. The doctor continued to converse with them in tones of cheerful and, as Barry thought, of almost careless indifference.
“Now, I must leave you,” said the doctor. “I see there's a case of shell shock. We didn't know how to handle that for a while. The British R. A. M. C. for some months declined to recognise it as requiring treatment at all. You might care to look at this chap. Poor devil!”
Barry had been looking at the man ever since he had come into the room, supported by two of his comrades. He was indeed an object of pity. Of splendid physique, six feet and powerfully built, with the fine intelligent face of an educated man, he stood there white, twitching in every muscle, in a state of complete nerve-collapse.
Colonel Tait, who had been observing him keenly ever since his entering the room, now approached him, greeted him with a cheerful “Hello!” took him by the hand and felt his pulse.
“How are you, old chap? Feeling a little better than you were, aren't you?”
“Yes—doc—tor. Rather—rotten—though—Be all right—to-morrow—”
“Sure you will! Still a little rest won't do you any harm. We'll send you down for a couple of weeks, and then you will be fit enough to have another go at the boche.”
So saying he turned him over to an assistant, and went on with his work. At this point Cameron, from whose eyes the look of horror had not yet faded, leaned over to Barry and whispered:
“Let's get out of this. For Heaven's sake, this thing is getting me.” He glanced at Barry. “What, are you ill, too?”
“Ill,” answered Barry between his clenched teeth. “Ill? No, why should I be ill? Look at these boys. I see myself ill. By Jove!” he added under his breath, “here's another shell shock. Sit down, Cameron!” His voice took on a sterner tone. “Sit down. Don't be an ass!”