He stood there, flimsy paper in his hands: no longer Lieutenant and Adjutant P. Jameson R.F.A., but Peter Jameson cigar merchant, of P. Jameson & Co., Lime Street, London. For a moment, he felt sorrow, the words “poor old Tom” framed themselves at his lips; till the brain, putting sorrow aside, insisted on business.
“Tom Simpson being dead”—reasoned the brain—“meant that Tom Simpson’s widow would have to be paid out in cash.” “In cash!” the brain repeated. What a fool he had been to renew that partnership agreement. But then, who would have imagined that of two partners, one on active service, the other at home, the civilian should die first. A fantastic trick—fantastic. . . .
Peter stalked out of the office, through the backyard, into the fields beyond.
“Wonder what’s upset ’im,” commented Driver Norris, looking up from his typewriter.
“He’s certainly worried,” admitted Corporal Pitman; and bent once more over his interminable “Army Forms.”
Alone in the big hedged grass field Peter Jameson, business man, wrestled with his problem. He must get leave of course. . . . But after that. It was no use going home without a plan. . . . He remembered suddenly that all leave had been cancelled the day before; strode back to the house.
The Colonel sat in the Mess—a comfortable room looking onto the road, light papered, tile-floored, furnished with some spindly chairs and a good dining-table.
“Leave!” said the Weasel, looking up from the vari-coloured map he had been studying. “You’ll be damn lucky if you get it. Hang it. I haven’t had my second leave yet.”
Peter explained rather curtly, ending up: “If you’ll sign the application, sir, I’ll take it in to Bailleul tonight. . . .”
“Do you know, P.J.,” chaffed the Weasel as he wrote “Recommended. D. Stark Lt. Col.” on the carefully-typed foolscap, “that you’re a damned undisciplined fellow? God knows what’d happen if you were Adjutant to any one except myself.”