The first inspection settled two of us.
“Another back case,” said the assistant surgeon to his senior.
“Back hurt you?” says the latter, mildly.
“Yes, sir; run over by a howitzer; ain’t never been able to stand straight since.”
“A howitzer!” says the surgeon. “Lean forward, my man, so as to touch the floor—so. That will do.” Then turning to his aid, he said, “Prepare this man’s discharge papers.”
“His discharge, sir?”
“Yes; I said that. Who’s next?”
“Thank you, sir,” groaned the man with the back. “How soon, sir, do you think it will be?”
“Ah, not less than a month,” replied the surgeon, and passed on.
Now, as it was unpleasant to be bent like the letter C, and as the patient presumed that his discharge was secure, he naturally allowed himself a little relaxation in the way of becoming straighter. Unluckily, those nice blue eyes were everywhere at all hours, and one fine morning Smithson was appalled at finding himself in a detachment bound for the field, and bearing on his descriptive list an ill-natured indorsement about his malady.