But Mecca was at hand. That very morning Dunshie's company commander
received the following ukase from headquarters:--
_Officers commanding Companies will render to the Orderly Room without
fail, by 9 A.M. to-morrow, the name of one man qualified to act as
chiropodist to the Company_.
Major Kemp scratched his nose in a dazed fashion, and looked over his
spectacles at his Quartermaster-Sergeant.
"What in thunder will they ask for next?" he growled. "Have we got any
tame chiropodists in the company, Rae?"
Quartermaster-Sergeant Rae turned over the Company roll.
"There is no--no--no man of that profession here, sirr," he reported,
after scanning the document. "But," he added optimistically, "there is
a machine-fitter and a glass-blower. Will I warn one of them?"
"I think we had better call for a volunteer first," said Major Kemp
tactfully.
Accordingly, that afternoon upon parade, Platoon commanders were
bidden to hold a witch hunt, and smell out a chiropodist. But the
enterprise terminated almost immediately; for Private Dunshie,
caressing his injured abdomen in Number Three Platoon, heard the
invitation, and quickly stepped forward.
"So you are a chiropodist as well as everything else, Dunshie!" said
Ayling incredulously.
"That's right, sirr," assented Dunshie politely.
"Are you a professional?"
"No exactly that, sirr," was the modest reply.
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