“Be careful!” a companion whispered, and shuffled a typewritten form along the desk. “I’ve used Tubby twice this morning already.”
The late Mr. Gantry Tubnell must have demised on approved departmental lines, for his record was much thumbed. Death and St. Peter watched the editing with interest.
“I can’t bring in Aunt Maria any way,” the clerk broke out at last. “Listen here, every one! She has heart-disease. She dies just as she’s lifted the dropsical Lattimer to change his sheets. She says: ‘Sorry, Willy! I’d make a dam’ pore ’ospital nurse!’ Then she sits down and croaks. Now I call that good! I’ve a great mind to take it round to the War-side as an indirect casualty and get a breath of fresh air.”
“Then you’ll be hauled over the coals,” a neighbour suggested.
“I’m used to that, too,” the clerk sniggered.
“Are you?” said Death, stepping forward suddenly from behind a high map-stand. “Who are you?” The clerk cowered in his skeleton jacket.
“I’m not on the Regular Establishment, Sir,” he stammered. “I’m a—Volunteer. I—I wanted to see how people behaved when they were in trouble.”
“Did you? Well, take the late Mr. Wilbraham Lattimer’s and Miss Maria Lattimer’s papers to the War-side General Reference Office. When they have been passed upon, tell the Attendance Clerk that you are to serve as probationer in—let’s see—in the Domestic Induced Casualty Side—7 G.S.”
The clerk collected himself a little and spoke through dry lips.
“But—but I’m—I slipped in from the Lower Establishment, Sir,” he breathed.