“Oh, damn the Bishop!” the Colonel said. “No—I’ll consult General Harland myself, Traherne. It’s up to me. I don’t give a damn which of us tackles the Bishop. But General Tyler—our American guest—that’s what hurts, Traherne—that an officer of another service saw—one of mine—what General Tyler saw last night!”
“Yes, I know, sir. But he was your guest. He’s one of the best too. It’s safe forever with him.”
“Oh, Lord,” the Colonel chuckled wretchedly, “and America’s just gone dry!”
“General Tyler hasn’t gone particularly dry, sir,” Dr. Traherne reminded him. “He took claret at dinner. And His Majesty’s health went down him in fizz. And he had a stiff peg with me at two o’clock this morning.”
“Good Lord, Traherne! Where?”
“At my digs, sir. General Tyler and I took Major Crespin home—to my bungalow, and saw to him, both of us. General Tyler was no end sorry about it. He was sorry for you, sir. He was sorrier for Crespin. Said so. He’s all-wool-and-a-yard-wide—a saying of his own countrymen’s, sir.”
There was a pause.
Colonel Agnew went back to the writing-table, and took up the dispatch, and tore it into very small bits before he threw it into the big waste-paper basket. Then he kicked the basket.
“Boy!” he bellowed.
“Topee,” he snapped when the bearer appeared. “You go prescribe for the Bishop, if you like,” he said to Traherne. “I’m off to eat humble pie to the General—General Harland. After tiffin, I’ll call on General Tyler, and ask him to come to the Club and lick me at poker.”