In a moment the
Royal Regiment had put up their swords and taken out their medical
appliances. Their military duties done, and they were doctors once
again, ready to help those who demanded their semi-civilian services.
They had scarcely been engaged in this manner ten minutes when the
Surgeon-Field-Marshal-Commanding-in-Chief cantered up to them. "Men,"
he cried, "drop your surgical instruments, and draw your swords. The
enemy are again upon us! We must take their fort!"
In a moment the Royal Regiment was on the march. On their way, some of
their comrades, wounded by the foe (in a bungling fashion), appealed
to them for succour.
"Very Sorry," replied the Surgeon-Field-Marshal-Commanding-in-Chief,
in a tone of commiseration; "very sorry indeed, but we can't attend to
you. At this moment we are acting in our strictly military capacity!"
And the Royal Regiment of Physicians and Surgeons, full of enthusiasm
(but in rather loose formation) continued their march to the fort.
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
[Illustration: Night Mare.]
_Tourmalin's Time Cheques_, drawn on the bank of eccentric imagination
by ANSTEY-GUTHRIE, is well worthy of the author of _Vice Versa_.
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