"Eustace generally mucks it some'ow."
"Ah, but that's because we been giving 'im things to do as 'e's not used to. But this weddin' business an' the 'ouse an' so on'll be easy to 'im; he's done it all before for Aladdin. If only that ole lady'd send me that book what I asked 'er for, we'd know better what Eustace can do. But if she don't get a move on it'll be too late."
But next day, when the company reached its billet, a mail arrived, in which was a bulky package addressed to Mr. William Grant, Pte. The old lady had not failed her protégé. The parcel contained an aged copy of the Arabian Nights, leather bound and smelling faintly of camphor. Between two pages of the book had been slipped a letter.
"Dear William Grant," it ran.
"I can so well imagine how the hearts of our dear boys in the trenches must yearn for the simple stories of their childhood. I have been unable to obtain for you a separate edition of the story you desire, so I send you a complete edition which belonged to my poor brother. It was one of his most cherished treasures, and I have always preserved it in memory of him; but I am sure that he could have wished nothing better than that his book should be instrumental in adding to the happiness of our brave soldiers. That it may bring you some cheer in the midst of your terrible troubles is the earnest wish of
"Yours most truly,
"Sophia Browne."
"I call that pathetic, I do," said Alf.
"Pore ole girl," said Bill. "Seems a shame, don't it?"
"Tell you what," Alf suggested, "we'll keep it nice an' clean an' send it 'er back when we've done with it. Don't seem fair, do it, not to?"
"Well, you ain't started very well, 'ave you?"
"What d'yer mean?"