plendid voice. And I don't see why he mightn't be here
instead of stuck in that silly old hospital He's quite well. He told me
so yesterday. A bullet through the calf of the leg is nothing.
Major, couldn't you get them to send Tommy over to the Camp just for
to-morrow?"

The Major shook his head. He had every sympathy with Miss Nelly. He knew
all about Tommy. So did Miss Willmot. So did Digby. Miss Nelly made no
secret of the fact that she was engaged to be married to Tommy Collins.
She was proud of the fact that he was serving as a private in the
Wessex Borderers, wishing to work his way up through the ranks to the
commission that he might have had for the asking. No Wessex man ever
entered the canteen without being asked if he knew Private 7432 Collins,
of the 8th Battalion. Every one--even the sergeant-major--had to listen
to scraps read out from Tommy's letters, written in trenches or in
billets. When Tommy was reported wounded, Miss Willmot had a bad day of
it with an almost hysterical Nelly Davis. When the wound turned out
to be nothing worse than a hole in the calf of the leg, made by a
machine-gun bullet, Miss Nelly cried from sheer relief. When, by the
greatest good luck in the world, Private 7432 Collins was sent down to
73 General Hospital, no more than a mile distant from the Camp, Miss
Nelly went wild with joy.

"Can't be done," said the Major. "If it were any other hospital--but the
people in No. 73 don't like me."

The Major was a stickler for extreme accuracy in the filling in of all
official papers. The staff of No. 73 Hospital cured its patients
of their wounds, but sometimes turned them loose afterwards,
insufficiently, occasionally even wrongly, described and classified. The
Major invariably called attention to these mistakes.

The Major, though particular on some points, was a kindly man. He did
not want to speak evil of the hospital authorities. He was also a little
tired of hearing about Tommy Collins. He changed the subject abruptly.

"By the way, Miss Willmot," he said, "it's all right about the men's
Christmas dinner. I spent an hour this morning strafing everybody in
the cook-house. I told them they must try to make the Yorkshire pudding.
Heaven knows what it will be like?"

"If they'll only follow the receipt I gave them----" said Miss Willmot.

"_If_," said Digby. "But those cooks are rotters."

"Anyhow," said the Major, "there'll be a decent dinner. Roast beef,
plum pudding, orange