It was the first day of the winter session, and the third year's man was walking with the first year's man. Twelve o’clock was just booming out from the Tron Church.

‘Let me see,’ said the third year's man, ‘you have never seen an operation?’

‘Never.’

‘Then this way, please. This is Rutherford's historic bar. A glass of sherry, please, for this gentleman. You are rather sensitive, are you not?’

‘My nerves are not very strong, I am afraid.’

‘Hum! Another glass of sherry for this gentleman. We are going to an operation now, you know.’

The novice squared his shoulders and made a gallant attempt to look unconcerned.

‘Nothing very bad—eh?’

‘Well, yes—pretty bad.’

‘An—an amputation?’

‘No, it's a bigger affair than that.’

‘I think—I think they must be expecting me at home.’

‘There's no sense in funking. If you don't go to-day, you must to-morrow. Better get it over at once. Feel pretty fit?’

‘Oh, yes, all right!’

The smile was not a success.

‘One more glass of sherry, then. Now come on or we shall be late. I want you to be well in front.’

‘Surely that is not necessary.’

‘Oh, it is far better! What a drove of students! There are plenty of new men among them. You can tell them easily enough, can't you? If they were going down to be operated upon themselves they could not look whiter.’

‘I don't think I should look as white.’

‘Well, I was just the same myself. But the feeling soon wears off. You see a fellow with a face like plaster, and before the week is out he is eating his lunch in the dissecting rooms. I’ll tell you all about the case when we get to the theatre.’

The students were pouring down the sloping street which led to the infirmary—each with his little sheaf of note-books in his hand.