I soon got to know three or four men who, like myself, were personally averse to bullets, and who were simulating other forms of disease with more or less success. One of them suffered with rheumatism of the back, and walked about like an old man; another, who had been to the front, was palsied in the right arm. A third kept open an ulcer on the leg, rubbing in a little antimonial ointment, which I bought at fifty cents, and sold him at five dollars a box. A change in the hospital staff brought all of us to grief. The new surgeon was a quiet, gentlemanly person, with pleasant blue eyes and clearly cut features, and a way of looking at you without saying much. I felt so safe myself that I watched his procedures with just that kind of enjoyment which one clever man takes in seeing another at work. The first inspection settled two of us. “Another back case,” said the assistant surgeon to his senior. “Back hurt you?” says the latter, mildly. “Yes, sir; run over by a howitzer; ain’t never been able to stand straight since.” “A howitzer!” says the surgeon. “Lean forward, my man, so as to touch the floor--so. That will do.” Then turning to his aid, he said, “Prepare this man’s discharge papers.” “His discharge, sir?” “Yes; I said that. Who’s next?” “Thank you, sir,” groaned the man with the back. “How soon, sir, do you think it will be?” “Ah, not less than a month,” replied the surgeon, and passed on. Now, as it was unpleasant to be bent like the letter C, and as the patient presumed that his discharge was secure, he naturally allowed himself a little relaxation in the way of becoming straighter. Unluckily, those nice blue eyes were everywhere at all hours, and one fine morning Smithson was appalled at finding himself in a detachment bound for the field, and bearing on his descriptive list an ill-natured indorsement about his malady. The surgeon came next on O’Callahan, standing, like each of us, at the foot of his own bed. “I’ve paralytics in my arm,” he said, with intention to explain his failure to salute his superior. “Humph!” said the surgeon; “you have another hand.” “An’ it’s not the rigulation to saloot with yer left,” said the Irishman, with a grin, while the patients around us began to smile. “How did it happen?” said the surgeon. “I was shot in the shoulder,” answered the patient, “about three months ago, sir. I haven’t stirred it since.” The surgeon looked at the scar. “So recently?” said he. “The scar looks older; and, by the way, doctor,”--to his junior,--“it could not have gone near the nerves. Bring the battery, orderly.” In a few moments the surgeon was testing one after another, the various muscles. At last he stopped. “Send this man away with the next detachment. Not a word, my man. You are a rascal, and a disgrace to honest men who have been among bullets.” The man muttered something, I did not hear what. “Put this man in the guard-house,” cried the surgeon, and so passed on without smile or frown.