One day I caught sight of a
large pile of horns and bones just brought in, but still thought
nothing of it. Shortly, however, a small deputation from the
convalescent camp appeared at the door of my cabin just as I was
eating my dinner: all saluted; the spokesman then explained that the
"b'ys" were prepared to give the obnoxious surgeon a "siranade" that
same night. They had been working for weeks to produce the instruments
of torture which were then all ready. "We don't mane to scare _ye_,
ma'am, and if it'll be displazin' to ye, sure we'll give it up." I
told them that I did not want to know about it, and was sorry they had
told me, but I would not be frightened at any noise I might hear in
the night. "All right, ma'am," said the spokesman, winking at the
others to show that he comprehended. The party then withdrew. About
midnight such a startling racket suddenly broke the stillness that in
spite of my previous knowledge, I was frightened. Horns of all grades
of sound, from deep and hoarse to shrill, tin cups and pans clashed
together or beaten with bones, yells, whistling, and in short every
conceivable and inconceivable noise.
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