der. In the
morning--that is during compressed drill--I had been twice wounded.
Owing to lack of education a famous novelist had confused his left
hand with his right, with the result that when we were right-turned he
had dealt me a terrific blow on the ear with the barrel of his rifle.
It soon ceased to be an ear, and became of the size and consistency of
a muffin. My second casualty was brought about by a well-known
orchestral conductor, who however confidently he could pilot his
players through the most complicated Symphonic Poem was invariably out
of his depth whenever, the ranks being turned about, he was required
to form fours. His manoeuvre that morning had been a wild and
undisciplined fugue, culminating in an unconventional _stretto_ upon
an exceedingly dominant pedal-point, that is to say, his heel on my
toe.

Consequently when I arrived home in the evening, wet, soiled, hungry
and maimed, I felt that I needed a little artificial invigoration. A
bright idea occurred to me as I was waiting for the bath to fill.

"Joan," I cried, "don't you think I might open Johann to-night?" Joan,
who had been trying to decide whether it would not be more advisable
to have my sweater dyed a permanent shot-green and brown, demurred.

"I thought your anti-German conscience would not permit you to open
Johann until after the war's over," she called back.

"My anti-German conscience has been severely wounded," I replied. "It
hasn't sufficient strength to hold out much longer. In a few seconds
it will surrender unconditionally."

"Be brave," urged Joan. "Just think how proud you will be in days to
come when you look back to this evening and realise how, in the face
of the most terrible temptations, you triumphed!"

"That's all very fine," I remarked, "but to-night I feel I need Johann
medicinally. If I don't have him, there may be _no_ days to come. Do
be reasonable. Do you suppose that if the KAISER, for instance, were
bitten by a mad dog--a real one, I mean--that his anti-Ally conscience
would forbid his adoption of the Pasteur treatment?"

"Then if you really feel the need of a special refresher," said Joan,
"at least let me send Phoebe out for a bottle of some friendly or
neutral substitute."

A vivid recollection of Phoebe's being despatched once before in an
emergency for mustard and returning with custard flashed through my
mind.

"She's much too unreliable," I cried. "She'd get bay rum, or something
equally futi