I went to the station slowly and sorrowfully, for I had looked for plentiful chow, and my experience told me that a surgeon was likely to put me on short rations. I had had, heaven knows, enough of that while in Bocheland to last me the rest of my life, and I was not anxious for its continuance under a sawbone. I should not have cared so much, had I thought it needful; but I knew that plenty of food was good for me—all theories of doctors notwithstanding.
I found several letters from home folks, and also one from Emily Grant that delighted me. Its contents were enough to make a less susceptible heart than mine beat fast. Sentiments and feelings that had almost been starved out of me were revived and, when General Burbank suggested that I go to the hospital where Doctor Rich was in charge, I fear I consented rather too willingly; though I did want to get at those Boches again. But as the colonel had said that the division was to go to another sector for rest, I was the more willing.
When I first reported to the hospital the doctor didn’t seem to know me. He examined my wound, sniffed at it, grumbled out something about inflammation and ulceration, and a little of his camouflage Latin, then directed his assistant to apply caustic with such calm indifference to my wishes, that I had an inclination to bang his eye. And then he fussed some more while giving directions to his assistant, until I was out of patience with him.
“What dunce,” he said, “has been fooling with this wound?”
“No dunce at all, sir,” I replied, “but as good a surgeon as you are. Only he didn’t have the stuff to care for it as you have. Like myself, the Boches had him.”
The doctor, who knew me as well as I knew him, had been so absorbed with examining the wound that he had taken little notice of the soldier attached to it. Now he recognized me and greeted me heartily.
“You’ve grown thin, Stark—and your clothes!”
“I have been starved,” I said, “and I am ragged and dirty too. I need good food and a lot of it, so that I can get my strength back. As for dirt, I haven’t been traveling in Pullman cars or sleeping in first-class hotels, Doctor. I am satisfied to be here, dirt, rags and all. But don’t give that food the absent treatment.”
“You will have to go on low diet for a while, I’m afraid,” said the doctor, “until the wound heals.”
I growled some more, but it did no good. If Surgeon Williams failed to understand my views about diet, he at least did not slight the wound. He had made a “history of the case” and applied a new dressing, all within two hours; for was I not Captain Stark, and not merely “a case”?