"Go on with your baleful schemes. Wallow in slaughter. Roll in blood. Devastate the district. As an honest hard-working Englishman I regard you with utter contempt."
Three days later Brackley slapped me on the back in our club.
"What are you doing here?" I said. "Don't tell me the snipe have gone on strike."
"All your fault," he grumbled. "About half-an-hour after I got your infernal postcard six outsize Republican soldiers called on me and gave me just ten minutes to get a car and drive to the station. I told them what a silly fool you were and that it was one of your wretched jokes; but you can't expect an Irishman to see a joke. I tried to explain it; I said that you referred to my exploits as a sniper; and they replied that sniping was their department and nobody else's.
"So I decided to come home and arrange for some shooting in a place where there's a bit of peace. I'm thinking of going after the ongdu antelopes in Somaliland. You can't spare three months, can you?"
"Why didn't you face it out?" I said, knowing that Brackley had spent four years and two months of his life shooting Huns.
"Not worth while. I could have had a guard, of course. But you can't expect decent snipe-shooting when there's a lot of promiscuous firing going on in the district. The snipe is a peculiarly nervous bird, you know."
