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 or Mr. Paul. Then there appeared the regimental doctor, or rather butcher, accompanied by an assistant, who very soon started work on Prokop’s leg. “H’m,” he said, “compound fractiurefracture [sic] of the femur and so on; at least six weeks in bed, my friend.” He produced two splints and then began a very unpleasant business. “Stretch his leg out,” ordered the butcher of his assistant, but Mr. Holz politely pushed aside the excited beginner and himself seized hold of the broken member with all his strength. Prokop bit into the pillows so as not to scream with agony like an animal, and caught sight of the pained face of Mr. Paul in which was reflected all his own torture. “A bit more,” said the doctor in a bass voice, feeling the fracture; Holz tugged silently and violently. Krafft ran out of the room gasping out something in complete desperation. Then the butcher quickly and adroitly fixed the splints in position, muttering something about putting the cursed leg into plaster the next day. At last it was all over; the pain was still terrible, and the stretched-out leg seemed to be dead, but at least the butcher had gone away. Mr. Paul still walked about the room on tiptoe, doing all he could to relieve the patient.

Then Mr. Carson dashed up in a car, and, mounting the steps four at a time, flew into Prokop’s room, which became filled with his sparkling sympathy. He was gay and comradely, chattered all sorts of nonsense at a tremendous speed, and suddenly began to smooth Prokop’s bristly hair in a friendly, and at the same time timid, manner. Prokop forgave his obdurate adversary and tyrant nine-