When I was young, my parents sent me to a boarding school, not in any hopes
of getting me educated, but because they wanted a quiet home.

At that boarding school I met one Frederick Delane Milroy, a chubby
flame-coloured brat who had no claims to genius, excepting as a
_littérateur_.

The occasion that established his reputation with the pen was a Natural
History essay. We were given five sheets of foolscap, two hours and our own
choice of subject. I chose the elephant, I remember, having once been kind
to one through the medium of a bag of nuts.

Frederick D. Milroy headed his effort "THE FERT" in large capitals, and
began, "The fert is a noble animal--" He got no further, the extreme
nobility of the ferret having apparently blinded him to its other
characteristics.

The other day, as I was wandering about on the "line," dodging Bosch crumps
with more agility than grace, I met Milroy (Frederick Delane) once more.

He was standing at the entrance of a cosy little funk-hole, his boots and
tunic undone, sniffing the morning nitro-glycerine. He had swollen
considerably since our literary days, but was wearing his hair as red as
ever, and I should have known it anywhere--on the darkest night. I dived
for him and his hole, pushed him into it, and re-introduced myself. He
remembered me quite well, shook my chilblains heartily, and invited me
further underground for tea and talk.

It was a nice hole, cramped and damp, but very deep, and with those Bosch