rubber tyres, C-springs and hot and cold water, that he has seen
climbing trees behind St. Quentin, we retort, "Oh, go and tell it to
'I.'" and then sit back and see what the inspired official organ of
the green tabs will make of it. A hint is as good as a wink to them,
a nudge ample. Under the genius of these imaginative artists the most
trivial incident burgeons forth into a LE QUEUX spell-binder, and the
whole British Army, mustering about its Sergeant-Majors, gets selected
cameos read to it every morning at roll-call, laughs brokenly into the
jaws of dawn and continues chuckling to itself all day. Now you know.

Our Adjutant had a telephone call not long ago. "Army speaking," said
a voice. "Will you send somebody over to Rataplan and see if there is
a Town Major there?"

The Adjutant said he would, and a N.C.O. was despatched forthwith. He
returned later, reporting no symptoms of one, so the Adjutant rang
up Exchange and asked to be hooked on to Army Headquarters. "Which
branch?" Exchange inquired. "Why, really I don't know--forgot to ask,"
the Adjutant confessed. "I'll have a try at 'A.'"

"Hello," said "A." "There is no Town Major at Rataplan," said the
Adjutant. "You astound me, Fair Unknown," said "A."; "but what about
it, anyway?" The Adjutant apologised and asked Exchange for "Q."
department. "Hello," said "Q." "There is no Town Major at Rataplan,"
said the Adjutant. "Sorry, old thing, whoever you are," said "Q.,"
"but we don't stock 'em. Rations, iron; perspirators, box; oil, whale,
delivered with promptitude and civility, but NOT Town Majors--sorry."
The Adjutant sighed and consulted with Exchange as to who possibly
could have rung him up.