"Hideous? horrible?" he said, taking off his glasses and thrusting his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe them, but bringing out something soft and white, which proved to be a piece of lint.  "Oh, I do call it cool.  If there's anything hideous it's your acts, sir; having those thundering guns fired, to send huge shells shivering and shattering human beings to pieces for the doctor to try and mend; your horrible chops given with cutlasses and the gilt-handled swords you are all so proud of wearing--insolent, bragging, showy tools that are not to be compared with my neat set of amputating knives in their mahogany case.  These are to do good, while yours are to do evil.  Then, too, your nasty, insidious, cruel bayonets, which make a worse wound than a bullet.  Oh, it's too fine to call my work horrible, when I try to put straight all your mischief."