I went into a shop to buy a trench-coat. The shopman came forward with
an air which said quite plainly, "You are a second lieutenant. You
have just obtained a commission from the ranks. You think you do not
want a complete outfit. It is my business to show you that you are
mistaken. You want a complete outfit. Your Sam Browne is second-hand.
You picked your boots up from a Salvage Dump. You cap was used once in
your bathroom at home as a sponge-bag. Your trench-coat is disgusting.
The whole outfit would fail to deceive a man's maiden aunt, so obvious
an attempt is it to mislead the unsophisticated into supposing that
you have arrived here straight from the trenches. I know better. You
have just obtained a commission in the motor-transport section of the
Wessex Home Defence Corps. Gentlemen from the trenches always dress as
if they'd come straight out of a shop like this ... And we don't take
cheques."

That was what his manner said. What he actually said was noncommittal.
He said, "Yes, Sir?"

I took off my trench-coat and let the glory of three whole stars
dazzle him. He little knew that one of them was "acting," and his
face fell.

"I do not at present," said I, "require a knife with indispensable
cheese-scoop and marmalade-shredding attachment. My indispensable
steel mirror with patent lanyard and powder puff for attachment to
service revolver is in perfect working order. I already possess two
pairs of marching boots with indispensable trapdoors in each heel
containing complete pedicure set and French-Portuguese dictionaries.
My indispensable fur waistcoats, Indian clubs, ponchos, collapsible
Turkish baths, steel aprons and folding billiard tables have already