The conversation turned to the "white potion" and "black jack," and I found they were all agreed that the poor person, man or woman, who in the Infirmary gave too much trouble or was in a bad way, was "polished off." That is to say, the incurables and the obstreperous were given a dose of "black jack" or the "white potion," and sent over the divide.

It does not matter in the least whether this be actually so or not.

The point is, they have the feeling that it is so, and they have created the language with which to express that feeling--"black jack" "white potion," "polishing off." At eight o'clock we went down into a cellar under the infirmary, where tea was brought to us, and the hospital scraps.

These were heaped high on a huge platter in an indescribable mess--pieces of bread, chunks of grease and fat pork, the burnt skin from the outside of roasted joints, bones, in short, all the leavings from the fingers and mouths of the sick ones suffering from all manner of diseases.

Into this mess the men plunged their hands, digging, pawing, turning over, examining, rejecting, and scrambling for.