wahr?_" I admitted that we dabbled in flag-flying ourselves and that
the weather was all he claimed for it (which effort cost me about four
pounds in weight). Tongues lolling, flanks heaving, we discussed the
hut-tax, the melon crop, the monkey-nut market, the nigger--and the
weather again.

Suddenly Frobisher sprang up, cast loose the shackles of his Sam
Browne, hurled it into a corner, and began tearing at his tunic hooks.
I stared at him in amazement--such manners before visitors. But our
immaculate guest leapt to his feet with a roar like a freed lion, and,
stripping his white gloves, flung them after the Sam Browne, whereupon
a fury of undressing came upon us. Helmets, belts, tunics, shirts were
piled into the corner, until at length we stood in our underclothes,
laughing and unashamed. After that we got on famously, that Teuton
and we, and three days later, when he swarmed aboard his mule and
left home (in pyjamas this time) it was with real regret we waved him
farewell.

But not for long. Within a month we were surprised by a hail from the
bush, and there was Otto, mule, pyjamas and all.

"Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo!" he carolled. "'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion!
Durn out ze guard!" He roared with laughter, fell off his palfrey and
bawled for his batman, who ambled up balancing a square box on his
woolly pate.

His mother in Munich had sent him a case of Lion Brew, Otto explained,
so he had brought it along.

We wassailed deep into that night and out the other side, and we liked