* * * * *

THE CAREER (POSTPONED).

MY DEAR JAMES,--A few weeks ago I wrote to tell you that ere long the
military machine would be able to spare one of its cogs--myself. I
discussed possible careers in civil life, and since then I had almost
decided on "filbert-grower." Had things gone well, by the beginning of
June you should have received a first instalment of forced filberts.

Now this cannot be. The cog is shown to be indispensable. I must
remain a soldier.

Why do they want me, James? I am nothing like a soldier. I cannot
click my heels as other men do. I try, Heaven knows how I try, but all
the C.O. hears is a sound as of two cabbages being slapped together.
And my word of command! The critics say it is like a cry for help in
a London fog.

My haversack contains no trace of any Field-Marshal's baton. You are
aware that every private soldier's haversack is issued complete with
"Batons, one, Field-Marshal (potential), for the use of." But there is
no authority for such an issue for commissioned ranks.

Is it because of my manner with men and my powers as a disciplinarian?
I fear not. If a man is brought before me for summary jurisdiction a
lump rises in my throat and I want to cry. I am always sure he didn't
mean to do it. As for military law, I am shaky on the fines for
drunkenness, and I don't feel at all sure whether death at dawn or two
extra fatigues is the maximum punishment for having one string of the