"'I'm sorry, Sir,' I says.
"'Well,' says he, turning to the other man, 'the Captain here will soon put you right.'
"'Certainly,' says the Doc very sharp. 'Where do you feel pain—stomach, heart, head?'
"'No, Sir,' says I, 'I got a nawful pain in me inn'erds.'
"'What did you say?' he asks.
"'In me inn'erds, Sir,' I says, 'spreading from me gizzard to me probossis,' them being the only out-of-the-way words I could think of off-hand.
"'H'm,' says he, pretending to understand perfectly, 'it is probably nothing serious. You must diet yourself; take nothing but light food and——'
"Here the Sub interrupts him, thinking there's something mighty queer about a doctor what is so ready to prescribe diet for a probossis, and asks him a lot more questions. Of course the beer was in the sawdust then, and very soon a guard was called up to take our German Captain Doctor Spy away to a safe place.
"It was lucky I knew his face. Before perfidjus Albion forced this war on the poor Kayser I'd seen him often in London. He was boss of a firm above the place where I worked, and he used to order his Huns about in their own language, and chuck his empty lager bottles out of his window into our yard. I'm glad I got my own back for that."
"Jim," cried an orderly, "you're wanted for your dressing."