handkerchief.

"Making a salad of you?" said the General. "Ha! ha!"

The B.M. smiled a smile (sickly, one).

"That's better!" The General spun it round. "What's it say now? East!"

"Better wait," said the B.M., "it'll change its mind in a minute."

"It's going!" cried the General excitedly. "There! Well, I'm--West!"

"The padre was right--it must be a fireguard, after all," said the Staff
Captain.

"Or a s-sundial," muttered the B.M.

I believe the meteorological report was finally entered as: "Wind light to
moderate (to strong), varying from East to West (_via_ North and South)."

"Of course," said the General kindly to the O.O., "it's not quite
perpendicular, it's a bit too low; wants a stronger prop, wires are a bit
slack, the vane itself wants looking to, and the whole thing is in rather a
bad position, but otherwise it's all right--quite all right."

"Yes, Sir," said the O.O.

"And there's too much oil," added the General, as he moved off.

"There is," said the B.M., discovering another blob on his shiny boots,