have held much brains, I saw that I must change my tone. if I
irritated him he would get nasty and refuse to listen and hang me
up for hours. So my voice became respectful.

'I beg your pardon, sir, but I've not been accustomed to be
pulled up suddenly, and asked for my credentials. My name is
Blaikie, Captain Robert Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers. I'm home on
three weeks' leave, to get a little peace after Hooge. We were only
hauled out five days ago.' I hoped my old friend in the shell-shock
hospital at Isham would pardon my borrowing his identity.

The man looked puzzled. 'How the devil am I to be satisfied
about that? Have you any papers to prove it?'

'Why, no. I don't carry passports about with me on a walking
tour. But you can wire to the depot, or to my London address.'

He pulled at his yellow moustache. 'I'm hanged if I know what
to do. I want to get home for dinner. I tell you what, sir, I'll take
you on with me and put you up for the night. My boy's at home,
convalescing, and if he says you're pukka I'll ask your pardon and
give you a dashed good bottle of port. I'll trust him and I warn you
he's a keen hand.'

There was nothing to do but consent, and I got in beside him
with an uneasy conscience. Supposing the son knew the real Blaikie!
I asked the name of the boy's battalion, and was told the 10th
Seaforths. That wasn't pleasant hearing, for they had been brigaded
with us on the Somme. But Colonel Broadbury - for he told me his
name - volunteered another piece of news which set my mind at