‘John Brown, sir,’ I said meekly, for never in my life had I seen such a perfect relic of the Napoleonic wars.
‘Get to blazes out of this, John Brown!’ he roared, putting his fat feet on the floor and banging the door. I was again alone—on the blasted heath. The old gent inside was Colonel Eat-All, the commandant. Rumour says he devoured two dervishes at Omdurman. I stumbled on once more, and found the orderly-room.
‘This way,’ said Sergeant-Major Kneesup, introducing me to the adjutant. I clicked my heels in the style of a Guardsman, and saluted like a railway signal.
‘Well?’ said a blasé-looking gent with three pips, looking up at me from his papers.
‘John Brown, sir.’
‘Who sent you here?’
‘The War Office.’
‘Umph! I know nothing about you. You had better go back to your regiment for your papers.’
‘But I can’t go all the way to France, sir.’
‘Well, no—perhaps not. Wait a minute,’ he said, ringing a bell. A clerk answered.