King grinned. You have to when you don't agree with a senior officer, for the army is like a school in many more ways than one.
“Help yourself, sir! I'll take the job that's left when the scramble's over. Something good's sure to be overlooked.”
“White feather? Laziness? Dark Horse?” the major wondered. Then he hurried away to write telegrams, because a belief thrives in the early days of any war that influence can make or break a man's chances. In the other room where the telegraph blanks were littered in confusion all about the floor, he ran into a crony whose chief sore point was Athelstan King, loathing him as some men loathe pickles or sardines, for no real reason whatever, except that they are what they are.
“Saw you talking to King,” he said.
“Yes. Can't make him out. Rum fellow!”
“Rum? Huh! Trouble is he's seventh of his family in succession to serve in India. She has seeped into him and pickled his heritage. He's a believer in Kismet crossed on to Opportunity. Not sure he doesn't pray to Allah on the sly! Hopeless case.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite!”
So they all sent telegrams and forgot King who sat and smoked and read about surgery; and before he had nearly finished one box of cheroots a general at Peshawur wiped a bald red skull and sent him an urgent telegram.
“Come at once!” it said simply.