and with this I departed for Amiens, where I reported to the Colonel of the X---- Hospital. Over a whisky-and-soda I gave him the "slip," and he looked at my arm and said, "Yes, scabies," and I was put into the isolation ward and treated for this disease. How more people did not die in that hospital beats me. I personally never got any sleep, and left in a fortnight nearly dead. Lights were out at 10 p.m. This sounds good, but there were about eight of us in the ward. I had to have my foot treated every three hours. The man in the next bed to mine was treated for something every two hours; and nearly all the other beds were treated three or four times during the night. For all these treatments the lights blazed about twenty times each night, and some of the treatments were very noisy. At 6.30 a.m., in the dark, the nurse came round, and anyone who was not dying was turned out of bed. Why, I know not: there was no heat in the place. If you were well enough you went off to a soaking sort of scullery and heated some water over a gas-jet and shaved. If you were not well enough, you sat in your dressing-gown on a chair. You were not allowed to sit on your bed. At 8 a.m. you were given an extraordinarily bad breakfast--porridge with no milk, tea with no sugar, bread with--most days--no butter. (p. 060) After breakfast you could go to bed again, but this was not allowed if you were going to be let out during the day, as I was most of the time. So there you sat again, freezing, till an orderly came and said your bath was ready, usually about 9.30 a.m.--three hours after you had left your bed. The bath was in an outhouse about fifty yards across the yard from the ward. In hail, rain or snow, you had got to go there. In it I was boiled in a bath, scrubbed all over with a nail-brush, and then smothered all over with sulphur--wet, greasy, stinking sulphur rubbed in all over me. I dressed by putting on a pair of pyjamas first. These more or less kept this grease from getting through to my other clothes, and I was allowed out to work--a sick, freezing, wet individual. But my room at the "Hotel de la Paix" was warm, and I sat over my "Flamme Bleue" all the morning. After I had been treated with sulphur for "scabies" a couple of weeks, a hole came in my throat just like the one I had on my foot--a white hole with a black band round it, and all the flesh for about six inches beyond it a deep scarlet. One morning the boy who washed me said: "I beg your pardon, sir, but what are you being treated for?" "Scabies," said I. Said he: "Don't say I said so, sir, but show the M.O. that thing on your neck. You haven't got scabies, and this sulphur will kill you soon." So I waited for the M.O. till he did his rounds. When he came to me he said the usual, "Everything all right with you?" "No," said I. "I've got a scabie on my neck that is worrying me." So he had a look at it and said: "I don't think this treatment is doing you much good.