In the latter case I certainly have
no right to boast, even should I find myself so inclined; for B. took
with him to Precigne a case of what his father, upon B.'s arrival in The
Home of The Brave, diagnosed as scurvy--which scurvy made my mutilations
look like thirty cents or even less. One of my vividest memories of La
Ferte consists in a succession of crackling noises associated with the
disrobing of my friend. I recall that we appealed to Monsieur Ree-chard
together, B. in behalf of his scurvy and I in behalf of my hand plus a
queer little row of sores, the latter having proceeded to adorn that part
of my face which was trying hard to be graced with a moustache. I recall
that Monsieur Ree-chard decreed a _bain_ for B., which _bain_ meant
immersion in a large tin tub partially filled with not quite luke-warm
water. I, on the contrary, obtained a speck of zinc ointment on a minute
piece of cotton, and considered myself peculiarly fortunate. Which
details cannot possibly offend the reader's aesthetic sense to a greater
degree than have already certain minutiae connected with the sanitary
arrangements of The Directeur's little home for homeless boys and
girls--therefore I will not trouble to beg the reader's pardon; but will
proceed with my story proper or improper.
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