"I say, B----," I asked as I contemplated a hay-stack of things, "what's
the regulation allowance for an officer's luggage? I forget."

"One hundred pounds. Oh yes, you may laugh, old chap, but I got round
the R.T. officer. Christmas! you know. And I can stow it in my billet.
Cheers the other fellows up, you know."

B----'s kit weighed, at a moderate computation, about a quarter of a
ton, and included many things not to be found in the field-service
regulations. But it would never surprise me if I found a performing
elephant or a litter of life-size Teddy Bears in his baggage. He would
gravely explain that it cheered the fellows up, you know.

"Major," I said, "you are a 'carrier'!"

"Carter Paterson?" said the Major, with a glance at his luggage.

"No, I didn't mean that. You are not as quick in the uptake as usual,
especially considering your medical qualifications. What I meant was
that you remind me, only rather differently, of the people who get
typhoid and recover, but continue to propagate the germs long after they
become immune from them themselves. You're diffusing a gaiety which you
no longer feel."

It was a bold shot, and if we hadn't been pretty old friends it would
have been an impertinence. The Major put his arm in mine and took me
aside, so that the subaltern should not hear. "You've hit the
bull's-eye, old chap," he said, in a low voice. "But don't give me away.
Come into the carriage."