“Well, Gibbs?” said the Major.
“It isn’t well, sir,” said I. “I’m afraid I’m no damn good. I haven’t got a thing to report,” and I told him of my ride.
There was silence for a moment. The Major flicked off the ash of his cigarette. “My dear fellow,” he said quietly, “you can’t expect to get the hang of the job in five minutes. Don’t be impatient with it. Give it a chance.”
It was like a reprieve to a man awaiting the hangman.
20
The squadron, having been on duty that day, had not celebrated Christmas, but the estaminet was a mass of holly and mistletoe in preparation for to-morrow, and talk ran high on the question of the dinner and concert that were to take place. There were no letters for me, but in spite of it I felt most unaccountably and absurdly happy as I left the estaminet and went back to my billet and got to bed.
The interpreter came in presently. He had been dining well and Christmas exuded from him as he smoked a cigar on the side of his bed.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, “your commission has come through. They were talking about it in mess to-night. Congratulations.”
Commission! My heart jumped back to the Marlborough Hotel.
“I expect you’ll be going home to-morrow,” he went on; “lucky devil.”