“What did ye get, Jock?”
“Och! Light duty,” said the hero with the air of a wronged man justified, “but you’ll be no gettin’ such a thing, Bowering!”
“And why not?” demanded the latter scowling. However, his name being then called put an end to the discussion.
“I have pains in me head and back, sir,” explained Mr. Bowering, “and no sleep for two nights.” The doctor looked him over with a critical, expert eye.
“Give him a number nine. Medicine and duty. Don’t drink so much, Bowering! That’s enough. Clear out!”
“He’s no doctor,” declared the victim when he reached the street. “Huh! I wouldn’t trust a cat with ’im!”
The next man got no duty, and this had such an effect on him that he almost forgot he was a sick man, and walloped a pal playfully in the ribs on the doorstep, which nearly led to trouble.
Of the remaining ten, all save one were awarded medicine and duty, but they took so long to tell the story of their symptoms, and managed to develop such good possible cases, that it was 8.45 before the parade fell in again to march back to billets, a fact which they all thoroughly appreciated!
Wonderful the swinging step with which they set forth, Corporal Jones at the head, Lance-Corporal MacMannish, quietly triumphant, bringing up the rear. They passed the Colonel in the village, and he stopped Corporal Jones to inquire what they were.
“Your men are marching very well, Corporal. ‘A’ Company? Ah, yes. Fatigue party, hey?”