He held the pocket open, and shook out its contents on to the table cloth—two faded slips of pinkish paper.
"These don't look very promising," he said. "Field telegraph despatches!"
He unfolded the first slip, smoothed it out, and read aloud:
The expression "Dud" will no longer be employed in Official Correspondence.
He laughed. "There's Staff work for you!"
"Eric—!" I began suddenly. Some inward monitor had jerked an alarm-cord in my brain. Where had I heard that message before? And in conjunction with what? I leaned across the table and stretched out my hand; but already Eric had unfolded the second despatch, and was smoothing it out with the wrist of his artificial arm. I noticed that a covering slip was pinned to the despatch.
Passed to you, read Eric—for immediate compliance, please.—J. E. F.
"That was old Forrester, the Brigade Major. It sounds quite urgent; I wonder what it is all about."
"Eric—!" I said again. Then, suddenly, I held my peace. Who was I, to interfere with God?
"Hallo," continued Eric—"here's my name!"