"Up then, and get where the air is fresh, It's what
we're prescribing this morning for grippe."
Thus caught, the invalid does get out, but not without leaving awful souvenirs of his prevarication.
There were some, heaven knows, that didn't lie.
“And why is this man still in bed?"
“We can't move him, sir," the first sergeant says.
"Feel better if he'd get up. Now what's the matter with you, Doe?”
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!"
“Answer up. What's the matter with you?”
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"
"That's nonsense. Do you good to get on deck. Sea-sickness is all imagination."
The officer looks around him quickly. His own words fail to comfort him. A lurch of the ship throws him against the bunk of pain. If he doesn't come up for air pretty soon himself his end is clear.
"All imagination," he insists weakly. “Get out of here."
With the aid of the first sergeant he gets Doe out. Doe sways, clutching at the air:
"If," he moans, "I ever live to get to France, I'm going to stay there and become a frog."
"Excuse me, Sergeant," says the officer vaguely, "Be right back. I've got to report—"
“All imagination, did I understand the lieutenant to say?" grins the sergeant.
But the officer hears, as he staggers up the ladder, the complaining voice of the invalid.
“Honest, Sergeant, they wouldn't treat a dog so."
"What you kicking about, Doe? Didn't you see the officer had all he could stand?"
And last of all the invalid's voice, suddenly strengthened:
