The Surgeon (innocently). No; you said quite the opposite.
The Visitor (dogmatically). Anyhow, ghosts don't tramp!
The Surgeon (gently bantering). Not even a ghostly tramp? They clank chains, I am told. Why shouldn't their steps have a sound? A sort of a hollow, ghostly sound?
The Visitor. Bah! Are you sure the bullet struck him after he saw the—the angels?
The Surgeon. So he says.
The Visitor. Hm! And you take his word for it! (He walks over to the door.} Dying, you say?
The Surgeon. Three quarters dead already.
The Visitor. And young?
The Surgeon. Nineteen—one of thousands. Oh, it's not romantic in the least. He's barely conscious; and he's waiting to go back to the front. He thinks he's going to get well.
The Visitor. They all think that, don't they? He won't?
The Surgeon. Never in this world. Queer, isn't it? Shot clean through the body; suffering like the devil, and all he's thinking of is when he's to go back—when he's to rejoin his regiment!
The Visitor. Like an animal trying to return to the slaughter pen.
