“I’m a surgeon. I’m not a blasted general practitioner— G.P. Huh! What does that mean? D’you ever ask yourself? You didn’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s the last and most ster— stereotyped anachronism, the worst, the stupidest system ever created by Godmade man. Dear old G.P.! And dear old B.P.!—that’s the British Public. Ha! Ha!” He laughed deri sively. “They made him. They love him. They weep over him.” He swayed in his seat, his inflamed eye again bitter and morose, lecturing them drunkenly. “What can the poor devil do about it? Your G.P.—your dear old quack of all trades! Maybe it’s twenty years since he qualified. How can he know medicine and obstetrics and bacteriology and all the modern scientific advances, and surgery as well? Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Don’t forget the surgery! Occasionally he tries a little operation at the cottage hospital. Ha! Ha!” Again the sardonic amusement. “Say a mastoid.* Two hours and a half by the clock. When he finds pus he’s a saviour of humanity. When he doesn’t, they bury the patient.” His voice rose. He was angry, wildly, drunkenly angry. “Damn it to hell, Manson. It’s been going on for hundreds of years. Don’t they ever want to change the system? What’s the use? What’s the use?