a room. He remained in that room all the evening, beneath
the bed, having his meals pushed in to him under the door. A prowling
A.P.M. sniffed at the keyhole but did not investigate further, which
was fortunate for the Babe, who had no regulation pyjamas.

Next morning, crouched on the bottom boards of another taxi, he was
taken to his tailor, poured himself into the faithful fellow's hands,
and only departed when guaranteed to be absolutely A.P.M.-proof. He
went to the "Bolero" for lunch, ordered some oysters for a start,
polished them off and bade the waiter trot up the _consomme_. The
waiter shook his head, "Can't be done, Sir. Subaltern gents are only
allowed three and sixpenceworth of food and you've already had that,
Sir. If we was to serve you with a crumb more, we'd be persecuted
under the Trading with the Enemy Act, Sir. There's an A.P.M. sitting
in the corner this very moment, Sir, his eyeglass fixed on your every
mouthful very suspicious-like--"

"Good Lord!" said the Babe, and bolted. He bolted as far as the next
restaurant, had a three-and-sixpenny _entree_ there, went on to
another for sweets, and yet another for coffee and trimmings. These
short bursts between courses kept his appetite wonderfully alive.

That afternoon he ran across a lady friend in Bond Street, "a War
Toiler enormously interested in the War" (see the current number of
_Social Snaps_). She had been at Yvonne's trying on her gauze for the
Boccaccio Tableaux in aid of the Armenians and needed some relaxation.
So she engaged the Babe for the play, to be followed by supper with
herself and her civilian husband. The play (a War-drama) gave the Babe
a fine hunger, but the Commissionaire (apparently a Major-General)
who does odd jobs outside the Blitz took exception to him. "Can't go
in, Sir." "Why not?" the Babe inquired; "my friends have gone in."
"Yessir, but no hofficers are allowed to obtain nourishment after 10
p.m. under Defence of the Realm Act, footnote (a) to para. 14004." He
leaned forward and whispered behind his glove, "There's a Hay Pee Hem
under the portico watching your movements, Sir." The Babe needed no
further warning; he dived into his friends' Limousine and burrowed
under the rug.

* * * * *

Sometime later the door of the car was opened cautiously and the
moon-face of the Major-General inserted itself through the crack.
"Hall clear for the moment, Sir; the Hay Pee Hem 'as gorn orf dahn