A change in the hospital staff brought all of us to grief. The new surgeon was a quiet, gentlemanly person, with pleasant blue eyes and clearly cut features, and a way of looking you through without saying much. I felt so safe myself that I watched his procedures with just that kind of enjoyment which one clever man takes in seeing another at work.
The first inspection settled two of us, "Another back case," said the ward surgeon to his senior.
"Back hurt you?" says the latter, mildly.
"Yes, sir; run over by a howitzer; ain't never been 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 a letter V, and as the patient presumed that his discharge was secure, he naturally took to 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 endorsement about his malady.