"Then let the General give an order that it's not to rain any more.
I want to know nothing about it."

The majority of Orders, even when less peculiar than this one, are
always received in this way--and then carried out.

"There's a reported order as well," says the man of letters, "that
beards have got to be trimmed and hair got to be clipped close."

"Talk on, my lad," says Barque, on whose head the threatened order
directly falls; "you didn't see me! You can draw the curtains!"

"I'm telling you. Do it or don't do it--doesn't matter a damn to
me."

Besides what is real and written, there is bigger news, but still
more dubious and imaginative--the division is going to be relieved,
and sent either to rest--real rest, for six weeks--or to Morocco, or
perhaps to Egypt.

Divers exclamations. They listen, and let themselves be tempted by
the fascination of the new, the wonderful.

But some one questions the post-orderly: "Who told you that?"

"The adjutant commanding the Territorial detachment that fatigues
for the H.Q. of the A.C."

"For the what?"