le hope of "getting to Pretoria." There is a
gallantry even about their delirium, for their delusion continually
is that they have won the Victoria Cross. One patient whom I found
the other day rummaging under his pillow informed me that he was
looking for "his two Victoria Crosses." Very touching also is their
care of each other. The bond which unites two soldier pals is one
of the most sacred kind. One man shot in three places was being
carried into Mr. Gibbs' ward. I lent an arm to his friend, shot
through the leg, who limped behind him. "I want to be next Jim,
'cos I'm looking after him," said he. That he needed looking after
himself never seemed to have occurred to him.'

=The Hospital Orderlies.=

Dr. Conan Doyle, however, reserves his highest praise for the hospital
orderly. We venture to quote at length, because of all workers during
this campaign none deserve higher praise, and none will receive less
reward than the men who have so nobly, so uncomplainingly done the
horrible work of nursing--'the sordid and obscene work,' as Dr. Doyle
calls it--through this frightful epidemic.

'In some of the general hospitals, orderlies were on duty for
thirty-six hours in forty-eight, and what their duties were--how
sordid and obscene--let those who have been through such an
epidemic tell.

'He is not a picturesque figure, the orderly, as we know him. We
have not the trim, well-nourished army man, but we have recruited
from the St. John Ambulance men, who are drawn, in this particular
instance, from the mill hands of a northern town. They were not
very strong to start with, and the poor fellows are ghastly now.
There is none of the dash and glory of war about the sallow, tired
men in the dingy khaki suits--which, for the sake of the public
health, we will hope may never see England again. And yet they are
patriots, these men; for many of them have accepted a smaller wage
in order to take on these arduous duties, and they are facing
danger for twelve hours of the twenty-four, just as real and much
more repulsive than the scout who rides up to the strange kopje, or
the gunner, who stands to his gun with a pom-pom quacking at him
from the hill.

'Let our statistics speak for themselves; and we make no claim to
be more long-suffering than our neighbours. We have three on the