‘With pleasure,’ I said, handing them over. ‘But what are you going to do with them?’
‘Burn them,’ she answered, striking a match and lighting them there and then. As the last telegram flickered out she kissed me good-night, and said, ‘Do try to be a sensible boy, John Brown.’
Next day I bought the engagement-ring.
CHAPTER XVIII.
GENERAL POM-POM.
I.
The worst of being in a cadet school is the number of inspections you have. Inspectors for trench warfare, gas, bayonet-fighting, administration, general training, &c., &c., keep popping in. Each man believes that his branch is It, and should you fail to come up to his requirements, then there’s a bad report, a thousand curses, and lots of trouble. All the same, this is absolutely necessary, and keeps specialists and instructors up to the scratch. The greatest defect is this: these people frequently ask for suggestions, but generally fail to back them up. This, I imagine, is due to the apathy of a higher authority, or the obtrusion of the inspector’s own point of view. We often talked about this, and our view was that all cadet-school instructors ought to form a corporate body, and demand ‘the goods.’ By the way, it was whispered that one real good W.O. man was named Browne. He, it is said, invariably endeavoured to get the schools whatever they wanted.