Whiteley's and Selfridge's and Wanamaker's and the Magazin du Louvre,
all rolled into one, would be a fleabite of simplicity. Ere the morrow
shall have dawned, our patient's military biography will be recounted,
by various clerks, in I don't know how many different entries. If you
are curious, refer to one of our volumes of the _Admission and Discharge
Book: Field Service Army Book 27a_. Open it at any of its
closely-written pages and see the host of ruled columns which the
orderly in charge of it must inscroll with reference to each of the many
thousands of patients who pass through our hospital per annum. The
columns ask for his Regiment; Squadron, Battery or Company; Number;
Rank; Surname; Christian Name; Age; Length of Service; Completed Months
with Field Force; Diseases (wounds and injuries are expressed by a
number indicating their nature and whereabouts); Date of Admission; Date
of Discharge or Transfer; Number of Days under Treatment; Number of
Ward; Religion; and "Observations"--a space usually occupied by the name
of the hospital ship upon which our friend crossed the Channel, and the
name of the convalescent home to which he went on bidding us adieu.

Having furnished the preliminary statements which lay the foundation of
this compendious memoir, the walking-case thankfully finishes his cocoa,
picks up the package of "blues" which has been put at his side, and
departs, with his fellows, to the bathroom. Here he is tackled by the
Pack Store orderlies, who take from him, and enter in their books, his
khaki clothes. These he must leave in exchange for the blue slop uniform
which, _pro tem._, is to be his only wear. When he emerges from the
bathroom he is attired in what is now England's most honourable
livery--the royal blue of the war-hospital patient. And (though perhaps
the matter is not mentioned to him in so many words) his own suit is
already ticketed with an identification label and on its way to the
fumigator. This is no reflection on the owner of the suit ... but there
are some things we don't talk about. Mr. Fumigator-Wallah is not the
least busy of the more retiring members of a war-hospital staff. He is
not in the limelight; but you might come to be very sad and sorry if he
took it into his head to neglect his unapplauded part off-stage.

The walking-cases are still splashing and dressing in the bathroom when
the ambulances with the cot-cases begin to appear. Now is the orderlies'
busy time. Each st