“Now I must have one of you chaps this afternoon.  Otherwise I promise you you won’t get all the things you want.”

Silence fell on the mess.

“The C.O. isn’t here, sir,” said Captain Resmith.

“I can’t help that.  I’m not going alone.”

“Cannon, you’d better go with Major Tumulty.  Major, this is Mr. Cannon, our latest addition.”

George only knew about Major Tumulty that he was Major Tumulty and that he did not belong to No. 2 Battery.  So far as George was concerned he was a major in the air.  After drinking a glass of port with the mess, Major Tumulty suddenly remembered that he was in a hurry, and took George off and put him into a scarlet London-General motor-bus that was throbbing at the door of the public-house, with an ordinary civilian driver at the steering-wheel and a soldier on the step.  George felt like a parcel; he had no choice of movement, no responsibility, no knowledge.  The mentality of a parcel was not disagreeable to him.  But at times, vaguely uneasy, he would start out of it, and ask himself:  “What is wrong?” And then the vision of a distant, half-forgotten street called Elm Park Road would rise in his mind and he would remember:  “My wife is very ill, and everything is upset at home.”

The motor-bus travelled a few yards and stopped; and out of yet another office a soldier carried, staggering, a heavy bag with a brass lock, and dropped it on the floor of the bus between the Major and George; and the bus, after a good imitation by the soldier-conductor of a professional double ting on the bell, went away afresh.

“That’s money,” said the Major, in his mild, veiled voice, pointing to the bag.

Little by little George learnt that the Major had ‘won’ the bus ‘out of’ the War Office, and had been using it daily for several days for the purpose of buying and collecting urgent stores and equipment.  The bus had become celebrated within the Division in an astoundingly short time, and on this, the last day preceding the trek, the various units had burdened the good-natured Major with a multitude of commissions.

“I try to keep accounts,” said the Major.  “But I know I’ve made a loss every day.  I’ve been in the T.F. ever since there was one, and it has always cost me money.  Now, I shall put you in charge of this little book.”

The little book was a penny account-book, with pages lettered in pencil A, B, C, D, etc., and items scribbled on each page.

“The letters show the batteries,” the Major explained.  “I’ve got a key to the batteries somewhere in my pocket.  And here’s what I call my grand list.”  He produced a roll of foolscap.  “I like everything orderly.  It saves so much trouble, doesn’t it?  I mean in the end.  Now, as I buy things I shall strike them off here, and I want you to strike them off in your book and put down the price from the bill.  I always insist on a receipted bill.  It saves so much trouble in the end.  I meant to bring a file or a clip for the bills, but I forgot.  You understand, don’t you?”