“It seems to me,” said the Major reflectively as he rose from table, “that ‘Artist, 33, literary, travelled, mentally isolated’ (one) is going to be buried beneath the weight of the world’s grievances—­or the grievances of this battalion, at any rate.”

“It’s the same thing,” observed the Senior Captain gloomily.  “Isn’t there any preserved ginger?  Lord, what a Mess!”

Weary Williams, a time-expired Second Lieutenant—­a ticket-of-leave man, as it were, without a ticket-of-leave—­who had once commanded the remnants of two companies with honour but not with acknowledgment, poised a fountain-pen, inquiring casually, “What was it the C.O. said about the destruction of Ypres?  Ah, yes” (and he began to write), “a Brobdingnagian act of brachycephalic brutality....”

* * * * *

At breakfast about a week later the Colonel seemed to be enjoying his immense pile of correspondence so heartily that many of the Mess, comparatively letterless as they were, directed glances of injured interest towards him—­of rather deeper interest than was warranted by military discipline or civilian breeding (which are, of course, the same virtue in different forms).

Then, presently, as he put down one letter and opened another, the Major was seen to stiffen and the Junior Sub. to wilt.  The attention of the table became as fixed and frigid as that of the midnight sentry at a loophole.  The Colonel toyed happily with another letter (while the Senior Captain made a careful census of the grounds at the bottom of his coffee-cup), took the range of the manure-heap outside the window from the angles of the table-legs, rose, and departed with his correspondence, summoning Williams to follow him.

Outside the Weary One waited respectfully for the Colonel to speak.

“So you saw through my camouflage?” said the latter thoughtfully.

“Yes, Sir.”

“How did you do it?”

“Well, Sir, to mention only the internal evidence—­an ‘Artist’”—­Williams waved his hand expressively towards the manure-heap; “’thirty-three’—­one of the youngest C.O.’s in the Army, I believe?” He bowed politely.

“Ha!” said the Colonel.

“’Literary’—­I remember your stopping Captain Jones’s leave for a split infinitive in a ration return.  ’Travelled’—­you have travelled in Turkey, I think, Sir?”

The Colonel, who had been blown out of a trench at Krithia, nodded shortly.

“’Mentally isolated’—­I’m afraid, Sir, our Mess doesn’t afford very much for a mind like yours to bite on.  I’m afraid, too, that such correspondence as—­as mine, for instance—­can hardly be called either brilliant or interesting.”

“I don’t know,” said the Colonel.  “That was a very good bit about the destruction of Ypres.  What was it?—­Ha, yes—­A Brobdingnagian act—­”

“—­of brachycephalic brutality, Sir.  But that was not original.”