"HOW WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR HAIR DONE, MADAM?"
"WELL, I WANT TO GET IT DEBOBBED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE."
THE CAREER (POSTPONED).
MY DEAR JAMES,—A few weeks ago I wrote to tell you that ere long the military machine would be able to spare one of its cogs—myself. I discussed possible careers in civil life, and since then I had almost decided on "filbert-grower." Had things gone well, by the beginning of June you should have received a first instalment of forced filberts.
Now this cannot be. The cog is shown to be indispensable. I must remain a soldier.
Why do they want me, James? I am nothing like a soldier. I cannot click my heels as other men do. I try, Heaven knows how I try, but all the C.O. hears is a sound as of two cabbages being slapped together. And my word of command! The critics say it is like a cry for help in a London fog.
My haversack contains no trace of any Field-Marshal's baton. You are aware that every private soldier's haversack is issued complete with "Batons, one, Field-Marshal (potential), for the use of." But there is no authority for such an issue for commissioned ranks.
Is it because of my manner with men and my powers as a disciplinarian? I fear not. If a man is brought before me for summary jurisdiction a lump rises in my throat and I want to cry. I am always sure he didn't mean to do it. As for military law, I am shaky on the fines for drunkenness, and I don't feel at all sure whether death at dawn or two extra fatigues is the maximum punishment for having one string of the hold-all longer than the other when on active service.
When I kicked the bell-push towards the end of last guest-night the Adjutant said he should mark me down for the job of Physical Training Officer; but I hope he was only joking. I am not built for the work. My frame is puny and my countenance irresolute. I hate bending and stretching my arms; they creak and frighten me. I never could squat on my heels like a thingummy.