nt ring of spurred
boots in the hall.

"This is an Officer's Ward, sir," a voice was saying.

The Field-Marshal Commanding-in-Chief, followed by another Officer only
less distinguished than himself, came slowly in.

"Poor boys!" he said. "How are you getting on?"

"All right, thank you, sir," he answered, smiling with pride.

"Here's the latest news from England," added the great man, as he
dropped a paper on the bed. The Subaltern's left hand almost shot out of
bed to grasp it. He looked up just in time to see them disappearing
through the doorway.

He tried to read the paper, but the effort brought the very worst pains
back again to his head, so he concealed it under the coverlet of the
bed. He was determined to keep that paper. It was already growing dark,
when the young Doctor of the Ward came to his bedside, smiling.

"We are going to operate on you at eight o'clock," he said. "It will be
all right. We'll soon put you straight."

"Straight?" he echoed. "Yes, I dare say you will!"

CHAPTER XXXII

OPERATION

The news came as a distinct shock to him. He had not even entertained
the possibility of undergoing an operation. Years ago he had had his
adenoids removed, and the memory was by no means pleasant. All along he
had told himself he would recover in time--that was all he wanted. To
have an operation was, he thought, to run another and unnecessary risk.

Later in the evening the Sister came in with a large phial, and injected
the contents into his arm.

"Morphine," she explained.

In a moment or so he felt that he did not care what happened. The
morphine made him gloriously drunk.

"Sister," he confided. "I'm drunk. It isn't fair to go and kill a fellow
when he's drunk, you know. It isn't playing the game. You ought to
suspend hostilities till I'm sober!"

He felt ridiculously proud of himself for these inanities.

"I know you," he strutted with laughter. "After it's all over, you'll
write home to my people and say, 'The operation was successfully
performed, but the patient died soon afterwards!'"

By this time they had stripped him of all but his shirt.

"Where's my bier? Where's my bier? Is a gentleman to be kept waiting all
night for his bier?" he exclaimed, with mock impatience.

They lifted him on to a stretcher, and began to push it through the open
window into the street.

"Farewell, Ophelia!" he cried to the Sister, as his head disappeared.

He was too drunk to feel afraid