"The very thing! Let's have them, uncle."
"I wish you could, lad; but they are landed and gone into the store."
"The commissariat store? I'll go after them in the morning."
"It'll trouble you to get them. He is a hard nut, that commissariat officer, as you'll see."
Mr. Dawber, the gentleman in question, was a middle-aged officer of long standing, who had been brought up in the strictest notions of professional routine. He had regulations on the brain. He was a slave to red tape, and was prepared to die rather than diverge from the narrow grooves in which he had been trained.
The store over which he presided was in a state of indescribable chaos. It could not be arranged as he had seen stores all his life, so he did nothing to it at all.
When McKay arrived early next day, Mr. Dawber was being interviewed by a doctor from a hospital-ship. The discussion had already grown rather serious.
"I tell you my patients are dying of cold," said the doctor. "I must have the stoves."
"It is quite impossible," replied Mr. Dawber, "without a requisition properly signed."
"By whom?"