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

He was too drunk to feel afraid.

They carried him into the room that had been turned into a theatre.  He found that the same young Doctor was to operate on him.  He was alarmed at his youth.

“I like a fellow to have white hair if he’s to operate on me,” he said to himself.

Another Doctor began to adjust the ether apparatus.

“Look here,” he mumbled, “how do you know my heart’s strong enough for this sort of thing?”

“Don’t be a fool; it’s your only chance.”

“Oh, all right.  Have it your own way, only don’t say I did not warn you!” he replied.

“Rather a character,” said one of the Doctors, as he placed the sodden wool firmly over his nose and mouth.

“Yes,” replied the Sister; “he said just now that the operation would be unsuccessful and that he would die!”

Drat the woman, she had spoiled his last joke!

He strove to explain.  But the fumes were clutching at his senses, and he could not.  The white walls of the room swam and bounced before his eyes.  Rivers were pouring into his ears.  Everything was grey and vibrating.  He made a frantic effort to turn his thoughts towards God and home, “in case.”  But he failed to think of anything.

With a jerk his senses left him.

* * * * *

When he recovered his senses it was still dark, but he realised that he was in another room.

And in that room he stayed for nearly a fortnight before the Doctor would allow him to proceed to the Base.

As regards the paralysis, there was little or no improvement, although he thought at one time that he was succeeding in wagging his big toe.  The Doctor would come in and say with mock petulance, “Surely you can move that finger now.  Pull yourself together!  Make an effort!”

He used to make tremendous efforts.  Even his left hand used to twitch with the effort of trying to move the right.

“No, not your left; the right,” the Doctor would say.

Then he would laugh, and go away saying that it would be all right in time.

His chief difficulty, not counting, of course, the perpetual headache, was his inability to sleep.  The nights seemed interminable, and he dreaded them.  The days were only less so because of the excitement of meals and being talked to by the Sister.  They became fast friends, and she would tell him all about her work, her troubles with the Doctors and with refractory Orderlies.  They used to laugh together over the short temper of a patient below, whom she used to call “Old Fiddlesticks,” and who seemed to be the most impatient of patients.  Then she would wander on about her home, how she nursed half the year, and spent the remainder with her married sister in Fondborough Manor.

One day one of the Orderlies shaved him, and every one was surprised “to see how much better he looked!”