has constructed of odds and ends of tin and tar-paper. He was supposed
to have been demobilised ages ago, but we cannot get him off the
premises.

Bob goes and interviews him on the subject about three times a day--all
to no avail. "'Tain't a bit o' use you comin' an' flappin' them there
paperses at me, Mister" (all officers, irrespective of rank, are
"Mister" to Violet), says he to Bob; "you know very well I aren't no
scholard an' I won't sign nothin' I can't read, even if I could sign,
which I can't, bein' no scholard; so there's the end of it, as I've told
you scores of times before, with all due respect, of course, as the
sayin' is."

He doesn't want to go home and he _won't_ go home, he says. His wife
beats him "somethink crool," he says; in fact he never knew what real
peace meant until war broke out. Furthermore she has been putting on
a lot of muscle of late and demobilisation means certain death. He
is going to stay where he is. What with the ginger cat's poaching
proclivities and the bully beef he has buried in the plantation he can
hold out almost indefinitely, he says; so there is no cause for us to be
anxious on his behalf. When we come back for the next war we shall find
him on the old stand, ready to resume business, he says, and for his
part the next war can't break out any too soon.

The remainder of Bob's time, as I said before, is occupied in trying to
square his establishment returns. Some time ago he discovered that he
was a water-cart short. This was serious, very. A water-cart is a large
and expensive item, and as far as he could see it would end in his
having to make good the loss out of his own pocket, which at that moment
contained ten centimes and a corkscrew.