The doctor thought for a moment, then:

"All right, report to-morrow again," he said. "You're a brave boy.
Some, who are not the least ill, whine till one is sick--what's the
matter with you?"

"Sore foot, sir," I said, seeing the M.O.'s eyes fixed on me.

"Off with your boot, then."

I took off my boot, placed my foot on a chair, and had it inspected.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know, sir. It pains me when marching, and sometimes--"

"Have you ever heard that Napoleon said an army marches on its
stomach?"

"Yes, sir, when the feet of the army is all right," I answered.

"Quite true," he replied. "No doubt you've sprained one of yours;
just wash it well in warm water, rub it well, and have a day or two
resting. That will leave you all right. Your boots are good?"

"Yes, sir."

"They don't pinch or--what's wrong with you?" He was speaking to the
next man.