Through the open window came the voice of the major, and by furtively craning our necks we could just see him at the table, with his tabs and his eyeglass.

Before him, half-naked indigents stood, cap in hand, their coats on their arms, or their trousers on their feet, pitifully revealing the man through the soldier, and trying to make the most of the bleeding cords of their varicose veins, or the arm from which a loose and cadaverous bandage hung and revealed the hollow of an obstinate wound, laying stress on their hernia or the everlasting bronchitis beyond their ribs.

The major was a good sort and, it seemed, a good doctor.

But this time he hardly examined the parts that were shown to him and his monotonous verdict took wings into the street.

"Fit to march--good--consultation without penalty."[1] [Footnote 1: As a precaution against "scrimshanking," a penalty attaches to "consultations" which are adjudged uncalled-for .-- Tr.] "Consultations," which merely send the soldier back into the ranks continued indefinitely.