“You are suffering. What is it?”
“Sh-Sh-Shell-shock, shir.”
“Ah!”
At last! Some heroic reflex of the war darted through Edwin’s mind. Here was his real chance at last. A poor fellow broken by the war and in need, neglected by an ungrateful country. Almost hidden by his outer coat he observed one of those little strips of colored ribbon, which implied more than one campaign.
“Where did you meet your trouble?” he asked.
“P—P—P-Palestine, sir, capturing a T-T-Turkish redoubt. I was through Gallipoli, too, sir, but I won’t d-d-distress you. I am in a—in a—hospital at St. Albans, came to see my g-g-g-girl, but she’s g-g-g-gone—v-v-vanished....”
“You don’t say so!”
“T-t-trouble is I l-l-l-lost my p-pass back. N-not quite enough m-mon—”
“Dear me! How much short are you?”
“S-S-S-Six shill—S-S-S-Six—”