



Produced by Les Bowler






TOMASO'S FORTUNE AND OTHER STORIES

By Henry Seton Merriman.


     "The common problem, yours, mine, every one's,
      Is--not to fancy what were fair in life
      Provided it could be,--but, finding first
      What may be, then find how to make it fair...."




LIST OF CONTENTS.

     SISTER.
     A SMALL WORLD.
     IN A CROOKED WAY.
     THE TALE OF A SCORPION.
     ON THE ROCKS.
     "GOLOSSA-A-L".
     THE MULE.
     IN LOVE AND WAR.
     TOMASO'S FORTUNE.
     STRANDED.
     PUTTING THINGS RIGHT.
     FOR JUANITA'S SAKE.
     AT THE FRONT.
     THE END OF THE "MOOROO".
     IN A CARAVAN.
     IN THE TRACK OF THE WANDERING JEW.
     THROUGH THE GATE OF TEARS.
     A PARIAH.
     THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.




SISTER


It does not matter where it was. I do not want other people--that is to
say, those who were around us--to recognize Sister or myself. It is not
likely that she will see this, and I am not sure that she knows my name.
Of course, some one may draw her attention to this paper, and she may
remember that the name affixed to it is that which I signed at the foot
of a document we made out together--namely, a return of deaths. At the
foot of this paper our names stood one beneath the other--stand there
still, perhaps, in some forgotten bundle of papers at the War Office.

I only hope that she will not see this, for she might consider it a
breach of professional etiquette; and I attach great importance to the
opinion of this woman, whom I have only seen once in my whole life.
Moreover, on that occasion she was subordinate to me--more or less in
the position of a servant.

Suffice it to say, therefore, that it was war-time, and our trade was
what the commercial papers call brisk. A war better remembered of the
young than of the old, because it was, comparatively speaking, recent.
The old fellows seem to remember the old fights better--those fights
that were fought when their blood was still young and the vessels
thereof unclogged.

It was, by the way, my first campaign, but I was not new to the business
of blood; for I am no soldier--only a doctor. My only uniform--my
full-parade dress--is a red cross on the arm of an old blue serge
jacket--such jacket being much stained with certain dull patches which
are better not investigated.

All who have taken part in war--doing the damage or repairing it--know
that things are not done in quite the same way when ball-cartridge
is served out instead of blank. The correspondents are very fond of
reporting that the behaviour of the men suggested a parade--which
simile, it is to be presumed, was borne in upon their fantastic brains
by its utter inapplicability. The parade may be suggested before the
real work begins--when it is a question of marching away from the
landing-stage; but after the work--our work--has begun, there is
remarkably little resemblance to a review.

We are served with many official papers which we never fill in, because,
on the spur of the moment, it is apt to suggest itself that men's
lives are more important. We misapply a vast majority of our surgical
supplies, because the most important item is usually left behind at
headquarters or at the seaport depot. In fact, we do many things that
we should leave undone, and omit to do more which we are expected
(officially) to do.

For some reason--presumably the absence of better men--I was sent up
to the front before we had been three days at work. Our hospital by the
river was not full when I received orders to follow the flying column
with two assistants and the appliances of a field-hospital.

Out of this little nucleus sprang the largest depot for sick and wounded
that was formed during the campaign. We were within easy reach of
headquarters, and I was fortunately allowed a free hand. Thus our
establishment in the desert grew daily more important, and finally
superseded the hospital at headquarters.

We had a busy time, for the main column had now closed up with the first
expeditionary force, and our troops were in touch with the enemy not
forty miles away from me.

In the course of time--when the authorities learnt to cease despising
the foe, which is a little failing in British military high places--it
was deemed expedient to fortify us, and then, in addition to two medical
assistants, I was allowed three Government nurses. This last piece of
news was not hailed with so much enthusiasm as might have been expected.
I am not in favour of bringing women anywhere near the front. They are,
for their own sakes and for the peace of mind of others, much better
left behind. If they are beyond a certain age they break down and have
to be sent back at considerable trouble--that is to say, an escort and
an ambulance cart, of which latter there are never enough. If they are
below the climacteric--ever so little below it--they cause mischief
of another description, and the wounded are neglected; for there is no
passion of the human heart so cruel and selfish as love.

"I am sorry to hear it," I said to light-hearted little Sammy
Fitz-Warrener of the Naval Brigade, who brought me the news.

"Sorry to hear it? Gad! I shouldn't be. The place has got a different
look about it when there are women-folk around. They are so jolly clever
in their ways--worth ten of your red-cross ruffians."

"That is as may be," I answered, breaking open the case of whisky which
Sammy had brought up on the carriage of his machine-gun for my private
consumption.

He was taking this machine-gun up to the front, and mighty proud he was
of it.

"A clever gun," he called it; "an