parapets on that glorious and bloody 25th day of September. Loos
was no picnic, and we had had some ugly bits of scrapping before
that, but the worst bit of the campaign I had seen was a tea-party to
the show I had been in with Bullivant before the war started. [Major
Hannay's narrative of this affair has been published under the title
of _The Thirty-nine Steps_.]

The sight of his name on a telegram form seemed to change all
my outlook on life. I had been hoping for the command of the
battalion, and looking forward to being in at the finish with Brother
Boche. But this message jerked my thoughts on to a new road.
There might be other things in the war than straightforward fighting.
Why on earth should the Foreign Office want to see an obscure Major
of the New Army, and want to see him in double-quick time?

'I'm going up to town by the ten train,' I announced; 'I'll be
back in time for dinner.'

'Try my tailor,' said Sandy. 'He's got a very nice taste in red
tabs. You can use my name.'

An idea struck me. 'You're pretty well all right now. If I wire
for you, will you pack your own kit and mine and join me?'

'Right-o! I'll accept a job on your staff if they give you a corps.
If so be as you come down tonight, be a good chap and bring a
barrel of oysters from Sweeting's.'

I travelled up to London in a regular November drizzle, which
cleared up about Wimbledon to watery sunshine. I never could