lowed hard. "We have on board eighty-four
generals, two hundred and twenty colonels, and one thousand eight
hundred and ninety-one what-nots of junior rank. They have all been
recalled from leave; they have all come by this boat. The eighteenth
breakfast is now being served--perhaps." With a dreadful cry he seized
the brandy bottle, while they faded slowly and sadly away. There are
things too terrible for contemplation. . . .

It was a wonderful trip--that final stage to the Half Way House of
Malta. There was the dreadful incident of the short-sighted subaltern
who got into a full Colonel's bed by mistake, when that worthy officer
had just gone down on four no trumps redoubled. In vain to point out
the similarity of engine-room gratings--in vain to plead short sight.
The subsequent scene lingered in the memory for days.

There was the case of the sleep walker, who got loose in the hold, and
ambled heavily over four hundred infuriated human sardines, till he
finally fell prostrate into what was apparently the abode of spare
china.

Last but not least there was the dreadful Case of the Major-General's
Bath. Of this Draycott speaks first hand; he, personally, was an
awe-struck spectator. Now the question of baths on that boat was not
one to be trifled with. The queue for the pit of a popular play was as
nothing to the procession that advanced to the bath in the morning.
And the least penalty for sharp practice with regard to one's turn was
death.

Into the bathroom, then, prepared for him by a perspiring Lascar, the
Major-General stepped. At the time Draycott did not know he was a
Major-General: he was just a supreme being resplendent in a green silk
dressing-gown. The door closed, only to open again at once.

"I have forgotten my sponge," he announced. "I shall not be a moment."
He gazed directly at Draycott, who bowed, choking slightly. It was
inconceivable to imagine that the resplendent one thought he might--to
put it in the vulgar tongue--pinch his bath. By nature he was a
timorous individual, and that green dressing-gown--ye gods! perish the
thought.

It was while he waited humbly that the catastrophe occurred. Advancing
magnificently came a second being, still more resplendent, in a purple
dressing-gown; and he was complete, with towel, sponge, and soap. His
eye would have impaled a London taxi-driver, and, scenting trouble, the
Lascar made himself scarce.

"It is preposterous to keep peopl