The surgeon came next on O'Callahan. "Where's your cap, my man?"
"On my head, yer honor," said the other, insolently. "I've a paralytics in my arm."
"Humph!" cried the surgeon. "You have another hand."
"An' it's not rigulation to saloot with yer left," said the Irishman, with a grin, while the patients around us began to laugh.
"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 these good fellows who have been among the bullets."
The man muttered something, I did not hear what.