"Of course we shall! And what's more, we are going to derive a national benefit out of this war which will in itself be worth the price of admission!"
"How?" asked several voices.
Wagstaffe looked round the table. The Battalion were for the moment in Divisional Reserve, and consequently out of the trenches. Some one had received a box of Coronas from home, and the mess president had achieved a bottle of port. Hence the present symposium at Headquarters Mess. Wagstaffe's eyes twinkled.
"Will each officer present," he said, "kindly name his pet aversion among his fellow-creatures?"
"A person or a type?" asked Mr. Waddell cautiously.
"A type."
Colonel Kemp led off.
"Male ballet-dancers," he said.
"Fat, shiny men," said Bobby Little, "with walrus mustaches!"
"All conscientious objectors, passive resisters, pacifists, and other cranks!" continued the orthodox Waddell.