GETTING UP. 
93 
Ohlsen?’ ‘Better, sir.’ ‘How’ve you passed the night, 
Mr. Brooks ? ‘ Middlin’, sir.’ And, after a diversified 
series of spavined efforts, the mystical number forms 
its triangle at the table. 
“It still stands in its simple dignity, an unclothed 
platform of boards, with a pile of plates in the centre. 
Near these is a vii’tuoso collection of cups grouped 
in a tumulus or cairn, commencing philosophically at 
the base with heavy stoneware, and ending with bat¬ 
tered tin: the absolute pinnacle a debased dredging- 
box, which makes a bad goblet, being unpleasantly 
sharp at its rim. At one end of this table, partly 
hid by the beer-barrel, stands Petersen; at the side, 
Bonsall; and a lime-juice cask opposite marks my 
seat. We are all standing: a momentary hush is made 
among the sick; and the daily prayer comes with one 
heart:—‘Accept our gratitude, and restore us to our 
homes.’ 
“ The act of devotion over, we sit down, and look— 
not at the breakfast, hut at each other. 
“It may sound absurd to those who cannot under¬ 
stand the narrowing interest which we three availables 
feel in our continued mutual ability, for me to say that 
we spend the first five minutes in a detail of symptoms. 
The state of each man’s gums and shins and ankles, 
his elbows, loins, and kidneys, is canvassed minutely 
and compared with his yesterday’s report: the recital 
might edify a specialist who was anxious to register 
the Protean indications of scurvy. It is sometimes 
ludicrous, but always sad. 
