Company Commander.

"Got the biscuits here, Sergeant-Major?"

"Yes, sirr."

"Show them."

The Sergeant-Major dives into a pile of brown blankets, and presently
extracts three small brown mattresses, each two feet square. These
appear to have been stabbed in several places with a knife.

Captain Blaikie's eyes twinkle, and he chuckles to his now
scarlet-faced junior--

"More biscuits in heaven and earth than ever came out of Huntley and
Palmer's, my son! Private Robb!"

Presently Private Robb stands at the table. He is a fresh-faced,
well-set-up youth, with a slightly receding chin and a most dejected
manner.

"_Private Robb_," reads the Captain. "_While on active service, drunk
and singing in Wellington Street about nine p.m. on Saturday, the
sixth_. Sergeant Garrett!"

The proceedings follow their usual course, except that in this case
some of the evidence is "documentary"--put in in the form of a report
from the sergeant of the Military Police who escorted the melodious
Robb home to bed.