reminds me of a man I saw out
there who wasn't a doctor, leastways not one of ours. We was in the
fire-trenches one night when a voice hails us from the other side of the
entanglements. After the usual questions we brings him over the parapet,
and he explains to our Sub that he's been in front attending to some
wounded men in a listening post what was blown up. All perfectly correct
and proper; gives his name and rank, too, and is wearing an R.A.M.C.
uniform--rank, Captain. As he passes me on his way to the Sub's dug-out
I happens to catch sight of his face, and it give me quite a shock. I
was took ill immediate. I manages to stagger to the dug-out, and I
mutters hoarsely, 'Sir, I'm sick. I think I'm going to die.'

"'Sick?' says the Sub. 'You don't look sick.'

"'I'm sorry, Sir,' I says.

"'Well,' says he, turning to the other man, 'the Captain here will soon
put you right.'

"'Certainly,' says the Doc very sharp. 'Where do you feel pain--stomach,
heart, head?'

"'No, Sir,' says I, 'I got a nawful pain in me inn'erds.'

"'What did you say?' he asks.

"'In me inn'erds, Sir,' I says, 'spreading from me gizzard to me
probossis,' them being the only out-of-the-way words I could think of
off-hand.

"'H'm,' says he, pretending to understand perfectly, 'it is probably
nothing serious. You must diet yourself; take nothing but light food
and----'

"Here the Sub interrupts him, thinking there's something mighty queer
about a doctor what is so ready to prescribe diet for a probossis, and
asks him a lot more questions. Of course the beer was in the sawdust
then, and very soon a guard was called up to take our German Captain
Doctor Spy away to a safe place.

"It was lucky I knew his face. Before perfidjus Albion forced this war
on the poor KAYSER I'd seen him often in London. He was boss of a firm
above the place where I worked, and he used to order his Huns about in
their own language, and chuck his empty lager bottles out of his window
into our yard. I'm glad I got my own back for that."

"Jim," cried an orderly, "you're wanted for your dressing."

James rose languidly. "That means na-poo, then, Sir," he said.

"Na-poo?" echoed the _Gazette_.

"Where's your learning, Sir?" asked James. "That's French for 'no
more.'"

"I hope your dressing will not be painful," ventured the other.

"How would you like to have a probe rammed through your hand twice a
day?" demanded James with a smile. "But it's all part of the