tter, I shall write a book about him, and I shall call it
_The Man behind the Scenes_.

Such was Peter's family. It may help you to understand Peter, who, if he
feared God, certainly regarded not man. Now the Flying Corps captain had
promised Peter that he would let him see the new Lewis machine-gun. It
is a type of gun specially designed for aircraft, rather big in the
bore, worked by a trigger-handle, and it makes a noise like the
back-firing of a motor-car of 100 horse-power. It plays no great part in
this story, except that it was the cause of my obtaining a glimpse of
Peter's private correspondence. For, after the Captain had discharged
his gun at a hedge and made a large rabbit-burrow in it, Peter proceeded
to pick up the cartridge-cases, which lay thick as catkins. This
interested me, as Peter already had a pocketful.

"What do you want all those for, Major Peter?" I asked.

"Well, you see," said Peter, "the kids at school"--Peter now calls other
boys of the same age as himself "kids," on the same principle that a
West African negro who is rising in the world refers to his fellows as
"niggers"--"keep on bothering me to send them things, and a fellow must
send them something."

He pulled a crumpled letter, to which some chocolate was adhering with
the tenacity of sealing-wax, out of his pocket. "That's from Jackson
minor," he said. "Cheek, isn't it?"

I began reading the letter aloud.

DEAR OLD PAN--You must be having a ripping time. I see
your letter is headed "The Front" ...

I looked at Peter. He was blushing uncomfortably.

... so I suppose you've seen a lot. The whole school's fritefully
bucked up about you, and we're one up on Fenner's....

"What's Fenner's?" I said to Peter.

"Oh, that's another school at Beckenham. They're stinkers. Put on no end
of side because some smug of theirs won a schol' at Uppingham last term.
But we beat them at footer."

We met them at footer the other day, and I told that little bounder
Jenkins that we had a fellow at the Front. He said, "Rot!" So I
showed him the envelope of your letter with "Passed by the Censor"
on it, and one of those cartridge-cases you sent me, and I said,
"That's proof," and he dried up. He did look sick. I hope you'll
get the V.C. or something--the Head'll be sure to give us a
half-holiday. Young Smith, who pretends to read the Head's
newspaper when he leaves it lying abou