The novelty of his surroundings occupied his mind.  The bed was soft, and his spine ceased to ache.  A feeling almost akin to contentment stole over him, as they left him in the clean, cool bed.  His companion without the throat had been put in another room.  There was only one more bed in this one, and the occupant was sleeping peacefully.

About four o’clock in the afternoon he heard the faint 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.