"His brother, sir."
"What is he doing?"
"He is dead, sir."
"That is a great pity. He would be a Colonel by now, I am sure. He was very like you."
You cannot ask for more of a man, even of Kitchener. Sergeant Young asked for more, for a commission, but he did not get it. And since that day he is vexed, displeased, angry with his name. He positively dreads it. He never signs anything when he can avoid it, and if he does his signature is illegible. Even I must not sign for him.
So I put my own name at the end of the letter to the Evening News, my name, Patrick Cooper, out of which the Sergeant has made first P. C., then Police Constable, and finally Privy Councillor.
It is in the quality of Privy Councillor that I address my chum, when suddenly a vivid fusillade bursts forth.
"I say, Sergeant, don't you think we are damn short of hand grenades?"
Instantly the soldier in Charles Young awakes.