"A clever surgeon gets more and more softened every time he operates, more delicate in his touches, more exact in his efforts to save a limb, or arrange an injury so that it will heal quickly.

Hardened, indeed! Why, to judge from your faces, any one would think surgery was horrible, instead of one of the greatest pleasures in life." "What, cutting and bandaging wounds, and fishing for bullets ?" blurted out Smith; "why, sir, I think it's hideous." "And I think you are an impertinent young coxcomb, sir," cried the doctor indignantly.

"Hideous, indeed! Why it's grand." He looked round at us as if seeking for confirmation of his words, but neither spoke.
"Hideous?
horrible ?" he said, taking off his glasses and thrusting his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe them, but bringing out something soft and white, which proved to be a piece of lint.

"Oh, I do call it cool.

If there's anything hideous it's your acts, sir; having those thundering guns fired, to send huge shells shivering and shattering human beings to pieces for the doctor to try and mend; your horrible chops given with cutlasses and the gilt-handled swords you are all so proud of wearing--insolent, bragging, showy tools that are not to be compared with my neat set of amputating knives in their mahogany case.