“Yes, yes! Ouw! Doctor. Awful.”
“Thought so,” said the doctor. “Bad case! Poor chap! A curious feeling in the legs, eh?”
The man nodded vigorously, still twitching violently and making animal moanings.
Still pursuing his investigations and continuing to sympathise with his patient, the doctor enquired as to other symptoms, to all of which the patient promptly confessed. When the examination was completed, the doctor gave his man a hearty slap on the back and said:
“You're all right, my boy. Go treat yourself to a cup of cocoa, and a good, thick slice of bread and raspberry jam—raspberry, remember—and to-morrow you can report to your battalion medical officer.”
“What!” exclaimed the man. “Doctor, I can't go up again. I'm not fit to go up.”
“Oh, yes, you can, my boy. You'll be in good fighting trim to-morrow. You'll see! You'll see! Come back here some day, perhaps, with a V. C.”
Thereupon the man began to swear violently.
“Here, none of that,” said the doctor sharply, “or up you go to-night.”
A grin ran around the dressing station, in which none joined more heartily than the first shell-shock man, waiting to be conveyed down the line.