it. The climax came when the Senior
Resplendent One, looking down at the telegram he was writing, found to
his horror that he had written, "Situation quiet Tit-Tat-Toe. Hostile
artillery activity normal Tit-Tat-Toe," and so on, substituting this
abomination in place of the official stop, ("Ack-Ack-Ack") throughout.

It was enough. Still gibbering, the Literary Adviser was hurled forth
from the office and told to work his witchcraft in solitude.

Paler, thinner and older by years he emerged from his retirement
triumphant, and the new code names went forth to a flourish of trumpets
or rather of the hooters of the despatch-riders.

Then it began. For days he was subjected to rigorous criticisms of his
selection. "Signals" tripped him up first by pointing out two units with
the same name, and they also went on to point out that the word was
spelt "cable" in the first instance and "cabal" in the second. The
gunners, working in groups, complained bitterly that a babel had arisen
through the similarity of the words allotted to their groups. One
infuriated battery commander said it was as much as he could do to get
anyone else on the telephone but himself.

Touched to the quick by criticism (when was it ever otherwise amongst
his kind?) the Adviser set aside his real work (he was, of course,
writing a book about the War) and applied himself to, the task of
straightening the tangle. Obviously the ideal combination would be for
each unit to have a code name that nobody could mistake no matter how
badly it was pronounced. And to this ideal he applied himself. Often, on
fine afternoons, the serenity of the country-side was disturbed by the
voice of one crying in the wilderness, "Soap--Silk--Salvage--Sympathy,"
to see if any dangerous similarity existed. At dinner a glaze would
suddenly come over his eyes, his lips would move involuntarily and
mutter, as he gazed into vacancy, "Mustard--Mutton--Meat--Muffin."

Histrionic effort played no small part in these attempts and
led to a good deal of misunderstanding, for he felt it incumbent
on him to try his codes in every possible dialect. Instead of
the usual cheery "Good morning," a major of a famous Highland
regiment was scandalised by an elderly subaltern blethering out,
"Cannibal--Custard--Claymore--Caramel," in an abominable Scotch accent.
Another day (on receipt of written orders) he was compelled to visit the
line to see if things had been built as reported, or, if it was just