her read it. "I know," ventured
Peter, "but I got the dickens of a strafe from the Colonel. He said he
had no idea when I could get away, and had better see you. What can I
do?"

"Silly old ass! You'd better go to-night. There are plenty of trains,
and you're all alone, aren't you? I might just alter the date, but I
suppose now you had better go to his nibs the Deputy Assistant Officer
controlling Transport. He's in the Rue de la Republique, No. 153; you can
find it easily enough. Tell him I sent you. He'll probably make you out
a new order."

Peter felt enormously relieved. He relaxed, smiled, and got out a
cigarette, offering the other one. "Beastly lot of fuss they make
over nothing, these chaps," he said.

"I know," said the R.T.O.; "but they're paid for it, my boy, and probably
your old dear had been strafed himself this morning. Well, cheerio; see
you again to-night. Come in time, and I'll get you a decent place."

The great man's office was up two flights of wooden stairs in what looked
like a deserted house. But Peter mounted them with an easy mind. He had
forgiven Lear, and the world smiled. He still didn't realise he was
acting in _Punch_.

Outside a suitably labelled door he stood a moment, listening to a
well-bred voice drawling out sarcastic orders to some unfortunate. Then,
with a smile he entered. A Major looked up at him, and heard his story
without a word. Peter got less buoyant as he proceeded, and towards the
end he was rather lame. A silence followed. The great man scrutinised
the order. "Where were you?" he demanded at last, abruptly.

It was an awkward question. Peter hedged. "The O.C. of my camp asked me
to go out with him," he said at last, feebly.

The other picked up a blue pencil and scrawled further on the order.
"We've had too much of this lately," he said icily. "Officers appear to
think they can travel when and how they please. You will report to the
D.A.Q.M.G. at Headquarters, 3rd Echelon." He handed the folded order
back, and the miserable Peter had a notion that he meant to add: "And
God have mercy on your soul."

He ventured a futile remonstrance. "The R.T.O. said you could perhaps
alter the date."

The Major leaned back and regarded him in silence as a remarkable
phenomenon such as had not previously come his way. Then he sighed,
and picked up a pen. "Good-morning," he said.

Peter, in the street, contemplated many things, including suicide. If
Colonel Chichester had been