The surgeon came next on O’Callahan, standing, like each of us, at the foot of his own bed.
“I’ve paralytics in my arm,” he said, with intention to explain his failure to salute his superior.
“Humph!” said the surgeon; “you have another hand.”
“An’ it’s not the rigulation to saloot with yer left,” said the Irishman, with a grin, while the patients around us began to smile.
“How did it happen?” said the surgeon.
“I was shot in the shoulder,” answered the patient, “about three months ago, sir. I haven’t stirred it since.”
The surgeon looked at the scar.
“So recently?” said he. “The scar looks older; and, by the way, doctor,”—to his junior,—“it could not have gone near the nerves. Bring the battery, orderly.”
In a few moments the surgeon was testing one after another, the various muscles. At last he stopped. “Send this man away with the next detachment. Not a word, my man. You are a rascal, and a disgrace to honest men who have been among bullets.”
The man muttered something, I did not hear what.