The reason for Derek's presence in the office was quickly forthcoming. The forty new arrivals were formed up in the corridor, each man having to furnish particulars of himself in order that the office records might be checked.
"Something wrong here, Daventry," remarked the Adjutant, tossing over a slip of paper on which a pay-room sergeant had written down certain particulars. "George Townley, born 1899, at Itching Abbess—sounds like the head of a nunnery plagued with vermin, eh, what?"
"I'll have the man in and see what it means," suggested Derek.
He opened the door. Just outside was the Sergeant engaged in questioning the new arrivals, One was an ex-R.N. able-seaman who had re-engaged for transfer to the R.A.F.
"Three good-conduct stripes, eh?" exclaimed the N.C.O. disdainfully. His acquaintance with conduct stripes was rather a distressful one, he having been disrated twice before he turned over a new leaf. "My opinion of a three-good-conduct-badges man is one who keeps the Commander, Master-at-Arms, and the Mainmast all in a straight line—savvy?"
Catching sight of Derek the Sergeant pulled himself up. He was one of those men who, unfortunately, do exist in all three services—sarcastically overbearing to those under him, and fawningly civil to those in authority.
"What's this, Sergeant?" asked Derek, holding out the paper. "There seems to be some mistake about this man's birthplace."
"No, sir," replied the N.C.O. with conviction. "I looked the words up in the dictionary to make sure. 'Taint the first man I've come across who can't spell."
"Where's the man?" asked the Lieutenant.
"Here, sir!"