O TEMPORA, O MORES! He wondered what old Syme, that prince of
surgeons, would say, could he see his whilom student raking out a probe
from among the ladles and kitchen spoons, a roll of lint from behind the
saucepans.
Bag in hand, he followed his guide to where the latter had left a horse
in safe-keeping; and having lengthened the stirrups and received
instructions about the road, he set off for the hut in the ranges which
Purdy had contrived to reach. He had an awkward cross-country ride of
some four miles before him; but this did not trouble him. The chance-
touched spring had opened the gates to a flood of memories; and, as he
jogged along, he re-lived in thought the happy days spent as a student
under the shadow of Arthur's Seat, round the College, the Infirmary and
old Surgeons' Square. Once more he sat in the theatre, the breathless
spectator of famous surgical operations; or as house-surgeon to the
Lying-in Hospital himself assisted in daring attempts to lessen
suffering and save life. It was, of course, too late now to bemoan the
fact that he had broken with his profession. Yet only that very day envy
had beset him. The rest of the fraternity had run to and from the tents
where the wounded were housed, while he, behung with his shopman's
apron, pottered about among barrels and crates. No one thought of
enlisting his services; another, not he, would set (or bungle) the
fracture he had temporarily splinted.
The hut--it had four slab walls and an earthen floor--was in darkness
on his arrival, for Purdy had not dared to make a light.
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