bout and ask me if I was always as
thin as this.

"As thin as what?" I say with as much dignity as is possible to a man who
has had his shirt taken away from him.

"As thin as this," says the doctor, hooking his stethoscope on to one of
my ribs, and then going round to the other side to see how I am getting
on there.

I am slightly better on the other side, but he runs his pencil up and
down me and produces that pleasing noise which small boys get by dragging
a stick along railings.

I explain that I was always delicately slender, but that latterly my ribs
have been overdoing it.

"You must put on more flesh," he says sternly, running his pencil up and
down them again. (He must have been a great nuisance as a small boy.)

"I will," I say fervently, "I will."

Satisfied by my promise he gives me back my shirt.

But it is not only the doctor who complains; Celia is even more upset by
it. She says tearfully that I remind her of a herring. Unfortunately she
does not like herrings. It is my hope some day to remind her of a turbot
and make her happy. She, too, has my promise that I will put on flesh.

We had a fortnight's leave a little while ago, which seemed to give me a
good opportunity of putting some on. So we retired to a house in the
country where there is a weighing-machine in the bathroom. We felt that
the mere sight of this weighing-machine twice daily would stimulate the
gaps between my ribs. They would realize that they had been brought down
there on business.

The first morning I weighed myself just before stepping into the water.
When I got down to breakfast I told Celia the result.

"You _are_ a herring," she said sadly.

"But think what an opportunity it gives me. If I started the right
weight, the rest of the fortnight would be practically wasted. By the
way, the doctor talks about putting on flesh, but he didn't say how much
he wanted. What do you think would be a nice amount?"

"About another stone," said Celia. "You were just a nice size before the
War."

"All right. Perhaps I had better tell the weighing-machine. This is a
co-operative job; I can't do it all myself."

The next morning I was the same as before, and the next, and the next,
and the next.

"Really," said Celia, pathetically, "we might just as well have gone to a
house where there wasn't a weighing-machine at all. I don't believe it's
trying. Are you sure you stand on it long enough?"

"Long enough for me. It's a bit cold