except in the case of a licence to proceed by bicycle, which differed,
of course, in colour, shape, size and other small details (which would
have to be learnt by heart) from the licence to carry foodstuffs--in
spite, also, of the fact that all necessary details of the
examination of passes were typewritten in not more than three pages
of the clearest official language and were posted up in every
sentry-box--even then that ass Nijinsky let the whole company down by
passing a member of the Intelligence Police through the line on his
giving his word of honour that it was all right.

The result was, of course, that I received official intimation that
our line could apparently be broken at any time and that "steps must
be taken," etc., etc. I took steps in the direction of Nijinsky.

Nijinsky is a Polish Jew (from Commercial Road, E.) and has long been
the despair of his platoon sergeant. He is fat where there is no
need to be fat, his clothes bulge where no clothes are expected to
bulge, and he is the kind of man who loses a cap-badge once a week,
preferably just before the C.O. comes round. There is only one saving
grace about him. He can always be trusted to volunteer for a dull
lecture or outing to which nobody else wants to go, but to which
certain numbers have to be sent. His invariable reply to the question
is, "Yiss, I'll ger-go, it's ser-something for ner-nothing."

I found him, as I expected, hanging round the cookhouse, and taxed
him with his neglect of duty.

"He ter-told me I ought to use my dis-cretion, Sir," he piped in his
high plaintive voice.