if I don't know the
correct answer I'll find myself meditating in Portland or Pentonville.
That's what I'm exposing myself to by obliging corrupt an' unscrupulous
friends," continued Percival bitterly.

"Hang it!" expostulated Frederick, "the potty little bottle of scent I'm
asking you to deliver to my cousin Julia won't get you more than a
seven-days' stretch. And you've got _fourteen_ days' leave."

"Well, I won't grumble about that, although I'd arranged my programme
differently. But what about the box of Flor Fantomas I'm taking for the
Major, and the bottle of whisky with which the skipper has entrusted me for
the purpose of propitiating his projected father-in-law, to say nothing of
the piece of Brussels lace which Binnie says is for his aunt. Their
combined weight will just about earn me a lifer. I can see me wiring the
War Office for an extension of leave on urgent business grounds--nature of
business, to enable applicant to complete term of penal servitude."

"Don't, Percival, old crumpet," murmured Frederick, visibly affected; "the
thought of you languishing in a felon's cell, without cigarettes, gives me
a pain in my heart. Let me see what I can do for you."

In a few minutes he was back, beaming. "I've fixed it all right, _mon
lapin_," he said; "if the worst comes to the worst they'll bail you out
with the Mess funds. But they won't accept further responsibility. The
Major says, if a fellow who's spent his whole career dodging duties can't
dodge the duty on a box of cigars he doesn't deserve sympathy."

So Percival proceeded on leave with a heavy bag and a heavier conscience.
On the boat he was greeted hilariously by Gillow the gunner and Sparkes the
sapper, who invited him below to drink success to the voyage. In order to
give the voyage no chance of failure they continued to drink success to it
until the vessel backed into Folkestone Harbour, when they felt their
precautions might be relaxed.

"Thanks to our efforts we've arrived safely," said Gillow as they strolled
up on deck; "but the sight of jolly old England doesn't seem to be moving
you to mirth and song, Percival. Why this outward-bound expression when
we're on the homeward tack, my hearty?"

"It's the gnawing molar of conscience," said Percival ruefully; "I've got a
consignment of pink-ribboned parcels in my bag which I know to contain
contraband and which I also suspect--Frederick's and Binnie's anyway--to
contain amorous missives not meant