Excursions In A Hospital.
By the half-past nine train George went to town; an
hour later was at St. Peter’s.
From the bar of the Students’ Club a throng
of young men of his year loudly hailed him. He
joined them; took with a laugh the commiserations
on his failure; wrung the hands of those who had been
successful.
The successful young gentlemen were standing drinks-each
man his round. There was much smoke and much
laughter. Amusing experiences were narrated.
You gathered that all who had passed their examination
had done so by sheer luck, by astonishing flukes.
Not one had ever worked. Each had been “ragged”
on a subject of which he knew absolutely nothing.
To the brilliancy with which he had gulled or bluffed
his examiner, to the diplomacy with which he had headed
him off the matters of which he knew absolutely less
than nothing-to these alone were his success due.
Such is ever Youth’s account of battle with
Age. Youth is a devil of a smart fellow, behind
whom Age blunders along in the most ridiculous fashion.
Later this young blood takes his place in the blundering
ranks and then does learn that indeed he was right—Age
knows nothing. For with years we begin to realise
our ignorance, and the lesson is not complete when
the grave slams the book. A few plumb the depths
of their ignorance before death: these are able
to speak—and these are the teachers of
men. We get here one reason why giants are fewer
in our day: with the growth of man’s imaginings
and his inventions there is more vanity to be forced
through; the truths of life lie deeper hid; more phantasms
arise to lure us from the quest of realities; the
task of striking truth accumulates.
Soon after midday the party broke up. Its members
lunched early; visiting surgeons and physicians went
their rounds at half-past one.
George strolled to the Dean’s office.
A woebegone-looking youth in spectacles stood before
the table; opposite sat the Dean. He looked up
as George entered, and nodded: he was fond of
George.
“Come along in,” he said; “I shan’t
be a minute.”
He turned to the sad youth. “Now your case,
Mr. Carter,” he said, “is quite unique.
In the whole records of the Medical School”—he
waved at a shelf of fat volumes—“in
the whole records of the Medical School we have nothing
in the remotest degree resembling it. You have
actually failed twice in—in—”
The Dean searched wildly among a litter of papers;
baffled, threw out an emphasising hand, and repeated,
“Twice! Other hospitals, Mr. Carter,
may have room for slackers—we have not.
We have a record and a reputation of which we are
proud. You are in your second year. How
old are you?”
A faint whisper said, “Nineteen.”
