“Your ashamed grateful friend,
“LUCILLE GAVESTONE.”
Second Lieutenant Delorme rang the bell.
“Bradshaw,” he said, as his soldier-servant appeared. “And get me a telegraph form.”
“Yussir,” said Private Billings, and marched to the Mess ante-room purposefully, with hope in his heart that Mr. Delorme ’ad nothink less than a ’alf dollar for the telegram and would forgit to arx for the chainge, as was his occasional praiseworthy procedure.
Mr. Delorme, alas, proved to have a mean and vulgar shilling, the which he handed to Private Billings with a form containing the message:—
“Can do. So cheer up. Writing his adjutant, pal of mine. Coming over Saturday if get leave. Going Shorncliffe if necessary. Leave due. Dam all right. Will blow over. Thanks for letting me help.”
“’Fraid they don’ give no tick at the Telegraft Orfis, Sir,” observed Private Billings, who, as quondam “trained observer” of his troop, had noted the length of the telegram and the shortness of the allowance therefor.
“What the deuce…?”
“This is more like a ’alf-dollar job, Sir,” he groaned, waving the paper, “wot wiv’ the haddress an’ all.”
“Oh—er—yes, bit thick for a bob, perhaps; here’s half a sov….”