concert given by the "Fluffy Furbelows" in the camp Nissen Coliseum, and a
Miss Gwennie Gwillis was expressing an ardent desire to get back to Alabama
and dear ole Mammy and Dad, not to speak of the rooster and the lil
melon-patch way down by the swamp. The prospect as painted by her was so
alluring that by the end of the first verse all the troops were infected
with trans-Atlantic yearnings and voiced them in a manner that would have
made an emigration agent rub his hands and start chartering transport right
away. She had an enticing twinkle which lighted on the Major a few times,
so that I wasn't surprised when the second chorus found him roaring out
that he too was going to take a long lease of a shack down Alabama way.

"Gad--she's immense! We must invite her to tea to-morrow," he said to me in
a whisper that shook the Nissen hut to its foundations. Slingswivel was no
vocal lightweight. Those people in Thanet and Kent who used to write to the
papers saying they could hear the guns in the Vimy Ridge and Messines
offensives were wrong. What they really heard was Major Slingswivel at
Nullepart expostulating with his partner for declaring clubs on a no-trump
hand.

"Very well," I answered sulkily. It wasn't the first time the Major had
been captivated by ladies with Southern syncopated tastes, and I knew I
should be expected to complete the party with the other lady member of the
troupe, Miss Dulcie Demiton, and listen to the old boy making very small
talk in a very large voice. I could see myself balancing a teacup and
trying to get in a word here and there through the barrage.

Still, there was no getting out of it, and next afternoon found our
quartette nibbling _petits gâteaux_ in the only _pâtisserie_ in the
village. The Major was in fine fettle as the war-worn old veteran, and
Gwennie and Dulcie spurred him on with open and undisguised admiration.