A cruel trick, to leave a suffering youngster alone in
this foul hovel." I mis-liked his symptoms - that anguished complexion
and delirious intermittent trembling, and began to run over the scanty
stock of household remedies contained in my bag, wondering which of them
might apply to his complaint. There was court plaster and boot polish,
quinine, corrosive sublimate and Worcester sauce (detestable stuff, but
indispensable hereabouts).
Just as I had decided in favour of the last-named, he gave a more than
usually vigorous jerk, sat up in bed and, opening his eyes, remarked:
"Those fleas!"
This, then, was the malady. I enquired why he had not joined his
companions.
He was tired, he said; tired of life in general, and of flute-playing in
particular. Tired, moreover, of certain animals; and with a tiger-like
spring he leapt out of bed.
Once thoroughly awake, he proved an amiable talker, though oppressed
with an incurable melancholy which no amount of tobacco and Venosa wine
could dispel. In gravely boyish fashion he told me of his life and
ambitions. He had passed a high standard at school, but - what would
you? - every post was crowded. He liked music, and would gladly take it
up as a profession, if anything could be learnt with a band such as his;
he was sick, utterly sick, of everything.
