EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
House of Commons, Wednesday, September 20.—Met Woodall, V.C., crossing Lobby just now on the way to his battlemented tower. Shouldn't have known him—indeed, had passed him, when I recognised his voice hailing me. It had an unusually tinny sound, due to fact that it made its way through the interstices of a closed visor.
Woodall, V.C.
"Good gracious, Woodall!" I said; "is that you? I thought it was one of the figures from the Tower taking an airing."
"Yes," said the Financial Secretary to the War Office with same vibrating, tinny intonation, "by my halidome (so to speak) it's me: and precious hot and generally uncomfortable it is, too, I can tell you. The things don't fit, you see; borrowed them from the Tower; some a size too large, which is bad; others a turn too small, which, considering they are made in metal, is worse."
Woodall got up, regardless of expense, in helmet, breastplate, things like kneecaps, and a piece of sheet-iron fitted to the small of his back.
"What do you do it for, then?"
With difficulty Woodall, V.C., unhooked something in his visor, and, after cautiously looking round, took it off.
"Haven't you heard," he said, as he mopped his forehead, "of the Secret Society, sworn to decimate us fellows of the War Office? Began with St. John Brodrick, who narrowly escaped assassination in the streets; went on to Campbell-Bannerman, who was threatened with sudden death. Now they've turned their attention on me. Every post brings an anonymous letter, advising me that my end approaches. They are in different handwriting, but the note-paper enjoys in common the adornment of a death's-head and cross-bones. Sometimes there's a coffin underneath; occasionally this accessory is omitted; it is made up for in the added ferocity of the communication. This makes one very uneasy. I daresay you have observed how stout Campbell-Bannerman looks of late. It's only his shirt of mail, worn under his ordinary linen. He says he's going to Marienbad to get rid of it; that's only his joke. As for me, I don't think it's worth mincing matters. I, as you see, go the whole animal; but it's very wearing. Sandhurst told me it was a case of armour or assassination. Having tried the armour for three days, am not quite sure I should not prefer assassination. Excuse me, there's a strange man lingering in the corner."
And Woodall, shutting his head up in the helmet, warily walked off.
