“What the——” he sputtered. “Get this car moved on, somebody!” he shouted.
The staff sat still and pretended it was not present.
“Woof, woof!” said the general in a furious cough. “Listen to those—woof, woof!—young devils! Move this train on, somebody! What have I got a staff for anyhow?”
The train stood still and conversation languished. There are only two things to be done when a general is angry: One is to get behind the furniture and pretend one is not there; the other is to distract his mind. The general’s ire growing and the car remaining in the tunnel, an aide whom the general called Tommy when no one was near ventured to speak.
“Rather an amusing story going round, sir,” he said. “Woof! One of the sergeants in the Headquarters Troop has made a wager—woof!—woof, sir!—sir—that he——”
“I don’t want to hear anything about the Headquarters Troop,” snarled the general. “Woof! Bunch of second-story workers!”
The aide subsided. But somewhat later, when the car had moved on and the general was smoking an excellent cigar, the general said: “What was the wager, Tommy?”
“I believe, sir, it is to the effect that within a month this fellow will breakfast with you, sir. To be exact, will eat a bran muffin with you.”
The general exhaled a large mouthful of smoke.
“C’est la guerre!” he said. He had been studying French for two weeks. “C’est la guerre, Tommy. Queer things happen these days. But I think it unlikely. Very, very unlikely.”