boottons?' Peter answered with a perfectly solemn countenance, 'I
omitted to do so, sir.' The S.M. glared at him, but he wasn't quite sure
about the meaning of the word 'omitted,' and being afraid of making a
fool of himself he passed on. Fletcher, who was standing only a few
numbers away, smiled at Peter's remark. The S.M. spotted him, and
shouted, 'What are you grinning at--anything foonny?' Fletcher said,
'No, sir,' and straightened his face with a wry contortion. The S.M.
shouted to the Orderly Sergeant: 'Take this man's name.' Fletcher was up
before the C.O. in the evening and got three days for laughing in the
ranks. I'm sure Peter'll get into trouble before long. He did the same
sort of thing yesterday. Sergeant Hyndman was in charge of us and we
were standing to attention. Peter started talking--you could hear him as
loud as anything. Hyndman got his rag out and yelled, 'Stop talkin'
there, will yer?' Peter dropped his voice and went on in a whisper.
Hyndman could still hear him, so he walked up to him and shouted, 'What
the bloody 'ell's the matter wi' yer?' As cool as you like old Peter
replied, '_Cacoethes loquendi_.' Of course Hyndman hadn't the remotest
idea what that meant and said, 'None o' yer bleed'n' impudence, else
I'll land yer inter trouble.' He didn't run him though.

"I tell you, I'm jolly glad to be away from headquarters. We've got old
Rusty in charge of us. He's been a bit of a worry-guts about having
cleaned boots and buttons ever since he got his second pip, but he's
quite a decent old stick taking him all round. He gets drunk every
evening, so that he's generally too far gone to trouble about lights
out. He doesn't make a fuss over our letters either--I believe he can
only read a very plain hand and has to skip the longer words. A good
job, too, for that's one thing I absolutely cannot stick, the way all
our letters are read....