the Babe admitted, "and I'm awfully sorry about it; but that hole in
it only arrived last night--shrapnel, you know--and I haven't had time
to buy another yet. I don't care for the style they sell in those
little French shops--do you?"

The A.P.M. didn't know anything about France or its little shops, and
didn't intend to investigate; at any rate not while there was a war
on there. "You will return to the Front to-morrow," said he. The Babe
grasped his hand from him and shook it warmly. "Thank you--thank you,
Sir," he gushed; "I didn't want to come, but they made me. I'm from
Fiji; have no friends here, and London is somehow so different from
Suva it makes my head ache. I am broke and couldn't afford leave,
anyway. Thank you, Sir--thank you."

"Ahem--in that case I will revoke my decision," said the A.P.M. "Buy
yourself an officially-sanctioned cap and carry on."

The Babe bought one with alacrity; then, having tasted enough of the
dangers of the streets for one afternoon, took a taxi, and, lying in
the bottom well out of sight, sped to his old hotel. When he reached
his old hotel he found it had changed during his absence, and was now
headquarters of the Director of Bones and Dripping. He abused the
taxi-driver, who said he was sorry, but there was no telling these
days; a hotel was a hotel one moment, and the next it was something
entirely different. Motion pictures weren't in it, he said.

Finally they discovered a hotel which was still behaving as such, and
the Babe got a room. He remained in that room all the evening, beneath
the bed, having his meals pushed in to him under the door. A prowling
A.P.M. sniffed at the keyhole but did not investigate further, which