'Yes, but from midnight last night or something, old chap. Technical point. Didn't you know? The last H.S. has cleared off, anyway. I told the Prof. you were really quite a reliable sort of fellow, and even if you were a bit prone to nip off for long week-ends you'd be back in a few days. I said I'd willingly cope with the extra work in the meantime.'

I looked at Bingham coldly. 'And what, may I ask, did the Professor say to all that?'

'Nothing, old chap. He just sort of snorted and went off.'

'I see.'

This was a bad start. Before I could seriously begin my career I would have to win promotion to senior house surgeon and work in the wards themselves under the Professor of Surgery. The appointment would be made after we had finished three months' work in casualty-and only one of us could be chosen. The reject would be turned out in his medical infancy to wail on some other hospital's doorstep.

'I say, old chap,' Bingham continued as we walked along. 'You simply must nip up to the ward after supper and have a dekko at some wizard pancreatic cysts. There's a wonderful perf. up there too-pretty sick, you know, but I think he'll last till we've had a squint at him.' Bingham had the true surgeon's mentality, for it never occurred to him that interesting signs and symptoms were attached to human beings. 'There's a kid with a smashing ductus, too. Murmur as loud as a bus. Could hardly take my bally stethoscope away.'

'I thought casualty house surgeons weren't supposed to go into the wards?'

'No really, old chap, but I told the Prof. I was working for Fellowship already and he said I could nose, round as much as I liked. I expect it'll be all right for you to come too, as long as you're with me.'

I began to hate Bingham before we first crossed the threshold of our common work-place.

The casualty-room at St Swithin's was not likely to fire in any young man the inspiration to be a second Louis Pasteur or Astley Cooper.