good, my man. We cannot take you. I'm sorry."
"But," said Bindle, "couldn't yer put me in somethin' wot sits on an 'orse, or 'angs on be'ind? I want to go."
"It's no good; I cannot pass you."
"Couldn't yer make me even a 'ighlander? Me legs ain't too thin for that, are they?"
"It's no good!"
"Are they catchin'?" enquired Bindle, with some eagerness in his voice.
"Are what catching?"
"Various veins."
"No."
"Just my luck," grumbled Bindle, "a-gettin' somethink wot I can't 'and on."
The doctor laughed.
Finding that nothing could break down the doctor's relentless refusal, Bindle reluctantly departed.
During the week following he made application at several other recruiting offices, but always with the same result.
"Nothin' doin'," he mumbled. "Nothin' left for me but to become a bloomin' slop. I must do somethink." And he entered the local police-station.
"What is it?" enquired the officer in charge.
"Come to gi' meself up," said Bindle with a grin. "Goin' to be a special constable and run in all me dear ole pals."
