o.

"How do you mean--extraordinary?" the other asked a little sharply.

"Why, the doctors have had so much difficulty with it. It's a unique,
they say. How many operations did you have?"

"How many did you have?" Ginger replied, with the caution of the
challenged.

"Go on--I asked you first," said Six-foot-two. "Was it more than eight,
anyway?"

"It was ten," said Ginger.

"Well, I had eleven," said Six-foot-two proudly. "They went after those
bullets eleven times. But they're all out now. I had every doctor in the
place round me."

"So did I," said Ginger, "and one of my bullets isn't out yet. It's
right in the bone. They're going to try again soon." He had quite
recovered his good-humour.

"What about your patella?" Six-foot-two inquired after a pause.

"My what?"

"Your patella. Do you mean to say the doctors didn't talk about that?"

"I dare say they may have done, but I don't remember. Still, _our_
doctors don't talk much--they act."

"Well, so do ours. There aren't better doctors in the world than at our
place, I can tell you. It's common knowledge. Why, Sir Rashleigh Hewitt
is there every day--the great Sir Rashleigh Hewitt, the King's doctor."

"Well, the King has more than one. Sir Frank Carver is another, and he's
at our place day and night. He's a masterpiece."

"I've always understood," said Six-foot-two, "that Sir Rashleigh is at
the very head of his profession. The nurses say so."

"He may be for some things," Ginger conceded. "But not the knee. Sir
Frank Carver is the crack knee man. Now if you'd been at our place I
dare say that one operation would have been enough for you."

"Enough? What rot! How could it be enough, with all the complications? I
tell you it's a unique, my case."

"Yes, it may be. But what I'm getting at is that it might not be if
you'd had Sir Frank Carver, the great knee specialist, at it at once."

"Oh, give Sir Frank Carver a rest. Sir Rashleigh Hewitt's good enough
for me and for anyone else who knows."

"All right," said Ginger. "Keep your hair on!"

"My hair's on right enough," said Six-foot-two. "It's you who are
getting ratty."

There was a pause, and both lighted new cigarettes, each taking one of
his own.

"What puzzles me," Six-foot-two began slowly, "is no one saying anything
about your patella. That's the great marvel of my case--my patella. It's
full of holes, like a sieve. There's never been one like it before. The
profession's wild about it