Staff Surgeon Ward. There,—there,—there, Doctor—there you are; there is the delicious os coccygis for you.
Dr. Adipose. Thank you, au—hau—, thank you, my dear friend—very good, indeed.
Dr. Kyle. Permit me to send you some sauce.
Dr. Adipose. Thank you, Doctor, au—hau—, very good, very good; it looks a perfect Kitchener,—au—hau, very good, indeed.
Hospital Assistant Lintly. Mr. President, a little soup.
President. Eh! what! soup again, Lintly?
Hospital Assistant Lintly. Yes, Sir, if you please.
President. There, there. De’il a word I’ll say aboot yer taste, mon; gin ye had supped as much sargery soup as me, ye’d tak to soolids.
Dr. Kyle. Ah, Mr. President, you were too long in the Peninsula to recover your taste for soup.
President. True, Doctor! Hey—de ye remember when you and I war hospital mates togither at Belem, when the sargeryman wad han’ us up twa smoking tins o’ broth, to see if it war fit for the sick; an’ then we wad hae anither twa, to see if it war fit for the wounded; an’ then twa mere to see if we liked it oorsels,—ha! ha! ha! Doctor, we war jolly hospital mates, then. Ecod! I never swallowed a mouthfu’ o’ soup sin’ I was promoted.