‘Dear Lorrison,’ he wrote, ‘I’ve just had an interview with my old man and he won’t agree to my transfer. I’m afraid it’s a wash-out unless something can be done quickly, as I suppose Jordan will be promoted very soon.’ (Jordan was the senior subaltern.) ‘You know how much I want to get back in time for the big show. Can you do anything? Sorry to trouble you, and now I must close.
‘Yours,
‘W. Pickersdyke.’
Then he summoned his servant. Gunner Scupham was an elderly individual with grey hair, a dignified deportment, and a countenance which suggested extreme honesty of soul but no intelligence whatsoever. Which fact was of great assistance to him in the perpetration of his more complicated villainies. He had not been Pickersdyke’s storeman for many years for nothing. His devotion was a by-word, but his familiarity was sometimes a little startling.
‘’E won’t let us go,’ announced Pickersdyke.
‘Strafe the blighter!’ replied Scupham feelingly. ‘I’m proper fed up with this ’ere column job.’
‘Get the office bike, take this note to Captain Lorrison, and bring back an answer. Here’s a pass.’
Scupham departed, grumbling audibly. It meant a fifteen-mile ride, the day was warm, and he disliked physical exertion. He returned late that evening with the answer, which was as follows:
‘Dear Pickers,—Curse your fool colonel. Jordan may go any day, and if we don’t get you we’ll probably be stuck with some child who knows nothing. Besides, we want you to come. The preliminary bombardment is well under way, so there’s not much time. Meet me at the B.A.C.[7] headquarters to-morrow evening at 8 and we’ll fix up something. In haste,
‘Yours ever,