Judge — April 12, 1919 — page 19: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

kind to Private Anson. He called him “old boy” twice. “You must be quiet, old boy,” he said soothingly, speaking with a pronounced democratic accent. “For your own sake, you must be quiet. If you don’t lie perfectly still we shall have to remove your leg. Do you understand me, old boy? Do you realize the importance of perfect quietness?” Private Anson ought to have been flattered, but he was not. He told the orderly officer to go to a place which, though warmer than Flanders in Febru- ary, is less muddy. The orderly officer laid his right hand on Private Anson’s brow. It was a beautiful hand, slim and white, and muscular. Private Anson tried his hardest to bite it. He jerked his head suddenly, and his gleaming teeth snapped like a vise, missing the surgeon’s little finger by an inch. The orderly officer withdrew his hand with great suddenness, and the most demo- cratic adjective he had yet used. The or- derly cried out in alarm. The sister’s eyes widened with horror, and her mouth twitched—probably the first outward ex- pression of deep feeling she had indulged in since the South African War. To offer violence to the hand of a sur- geon is a crime which even delirium fails to excuse. The orderly officer wasted no more time on Private Anson after that; words v.ere absolutely useless. “Give him morphia, sister, and keep him as quiet as you can. Somebody had better stay with him all night. I am afraid it is useless, though. If he hasn’t killed himself before morning, that leg will have to come off. It’s a pity, too— remarkable operation in many ways— Captain Spencer was anxious it should turn out a success. G’night, sister.” After a brief struggle, from which the orderly emerged with nothing worse than a black eye, the sister succeeded in in- jecting the morphia. For all the appar- ent effect it had on Private Anson, the morphia might just as well have been water. The orderly was contending against an unusually vigorous attempt to get out of bed, when the padre entered the ward. The padre was a little, round man, with a red, round face, and big, round glasses. He wore the South African rib- bon and a wound-stripe, and had been “over the top” more thanonce. Closing the door gently behind him, he tiptoed down the ward until he reached Private Anson’s bed. “Good evening, orderly. Is he one of my boys?” “Couldn’t say, sir,” said the order- The End of the Socialistic Carnival Il lupo tedesco butta finalmente la maschera! At last the German wolf discards his mask. —L’Asino (Rome). ly, grabbing Private Anson’s wrists. “Haven't had a chance to look yet.” “What's the matter with him, orderly? He seems very ill.” The orderly explained. His explana- tion was frequently interrupted by Pri- vate Anson’s oft-repeated invitation to “Come and have it out in a shell-hole if yer fancy yerselves.” “And the doctor thinks that if this poor boy can only be kept quiet there is a chance for his leg,” murmured the padre thoughtfully. “Have you tried to reason with him in his own language, orderly?” The orderly looked puzzled. “His own language, sir? He’s British, you know.” “Quite so, orderly; but he’s a Regular soldier, isn’t he?” “Yes, sir—out since Mons, and all the Test of it.” The padre smiled gently. “Old soldiers have a language of their own, orderly. Just go and tell the sister I should like to speak to her, will you, please? I'll look after your patient while you are away.” The moment the orderly had turned his back, the padre glanced stealthily around him and bent over the patient. Private Anson cursed him impartially, and mentioned several of the things that would happen if ever he caught the padre alone in a shell-hole. The padre’s eyes gleamed. “Shut yer bloody mouth,” he hissed, “and listen to me! These people are doin’ their best to save yer bloody leg, and you, yer bloody fool, are goin’ the right way to lose it. If I was them I wouldn’t take any more bloody trouble with you. I’d tut the bloody thing off, yer bloody silly head as well, you bloody ole washout!” “If we was in a shell-ole—” began Private Anson indignantly. “Yer know more about estaminets,” scoffed the padre. “All this bloody fuss over a bad leg, and there’s fellows in this same bloody ward ten times as bad as you not sayin’ a word! Kids just out from Blighty, too, most of ’em. Yer oughter be bloody well ashamed of yer- self. Can’t stand a bit of pain.” “Who can’t stand a bit of pain?” “You can’t; yer too bloody windy.” “Windy? Me! I was out at Mons, I was. A Close Call for Fifty Cents “Oh! Madame, j'ai mangué de me casser le cou!l” . “Nroublies pas, Maric, que tout ce que vous casses ici, sera retonu sur os gages! “Oh! Madame, I almost broke my neck!” “Well, Marie, I’d have you remember that anything you break here will be taken out of your wages!"—Le Péle-Méle (Paris). comicbooks.com