After an unsuccessful application for employment as a “buzzer,” or signaller, Dunshie made trial of the regimental transport, where there was a shortage of drivers.  He had strong hopes that in this way he would attain to permanent carriage exercise.  But he was quickly undeceived.  Instead of being offered a seat upon the box of a G.S. waggon, he was bidden to walk behind the same, applying the brake when necessary, for fourteen miles.  The next day he spent cleaning stables, under a particularly officious corporal.  On the third, he was instructed in the art of grooming a mule.  On the fourth, he was left to perform this feat unaided, and the mule, acting under extreme provocation, kicked him in the stomach.  On the fifth day he was returned to his company.

But Mecca was at hand.  That very morning Dunshie’s company commander received the following ukase from headquarters:—­

Officers commanding Companies will render to the Orderly Room without fail, by 9 A.M. to-morrow, the name of one man qualified to act as chiropodist to the Company.

Major Kemp scratched his nose in a dazed fashion, and looked over his spectacles at his Quartermaster-Sergeant.

“What in thunder will they ask for next?” he growled.  “Have we got any tame chiropodists in the company, Rae?”

Quartermaster-Sergeant Rae turned over the Company roll.

“There is no—­no—­no man of that profession here, sirr,” he reported, after scanning the document.  “But,” he added optimistically, “there is a machine-fitter and a glass-blower.  Will I warn one of them?”

“I think we had better call for a volunteer first,” said Major Kemp tactfully.

Accordingly, that afternoon upon parade, Platoon commanders were bidden to hold a witch hunt, and smell out a chiropodist.  But the enterprise terminated almost immediately; for Private Dunshie, caressing his injured abdomen in Number Three Platoon, heard the invitation, and quickly stepped forward.

“So you are a chiropodist as well as everything else, Dunshie!” said Ayling incredulously.

“That’s right, sirr,” assented Dunshie politely.

“Are you a professional?”

“No exactly that, sirr,” was the modest reply.

“You just make a hobby of it?”

“Just that, sirr.”

“Have you had much experience?”

“No that much.”

“But you feel capable of taking on the job?”

“I do, sirr.”

“You seem quite eager about it.”

“Yes, sirr,” said Dunshie, with gusto.

A sudden thought occurred to Ayling.

“Do you know what a chiropodist is?” he asked.

“No, sirr,” replied Dunshie, with unabated aplomb.

* * * * *

To do him justice, the revelation of the nature of his prospective labours made no difference whatever to Dunshie’s willingness to undertake them.  Now, upon Saturday mornings, when men stand stiffly at attention beside their beds to have their feet inspected, you may behold, sweeping majestically in the wake of the Medical Officer as he makes his rounds, the swelling figure of Private Dunshie, carrying the implements of his gruesome trade.  He has found his vocation at last, and his bearing in consequence is something between that of a Court Physician and a Staff Officer.