hful steward with dismayed, uplifted hands, retiring from the room
in one of the great scenes of Hogarth's "Rake's Progress." The
similitude made him laugh--for Doggie always had a saving sense of
humour--but he was very angry with Peddle, while he stamped around the
room in his silk pyjamas. What the deuce was he going to do? Even if
he committed the military crime (and there was a far more serious
crime already against him) of appearing in public in mufti, did that
old ass think he was going to swagger about Durdlebury in bottle-green
suits, as though he were ashamed of the King's uniform? He dipped his
shaving-brush into the hot water. Then he threw it, anyhow, across the
room. Instead of shaving, he would be gloating over the idea of
cutting that old fool, Peddle's, throat, and therefore would slash his
own face to bits.

Things, however, were not done at lightning speed in the Deanery of
Durdlebury. The first steps had not even been taken to send the
uniform to the cleaners, and soon Peddle reappeared carrying it over
his arm and the heavy pair of munition boots in his hand.

"These too, sir?" he asked, exhibiting the latter resignedly and
casting a sad glance at the neat pair of brown shoes exquisitely
polished and beautifully treed which he had put out for his master's
wear.

"These too," said Doggie. "And where's my grey flannel shirt?"

This time Peddle triumphed. "I've given that away, sir, to the
gardener's boy."

"Well, you can just go and buy me half a dozen more like it," said
Doggie.

He dismissed the old man, dressed and went downstairs. The Dean had
breakfasted at seven. Peggy and Oliver were not yet down for the nine
o'clock meal. Doggie strolled about the garden and sauntered round to
the stable-yard. There he encountered Chipmunk in his shirt-sleeves,
sitting on a packing case and polishing Oliver's leggings. He raised
an ugly, clean-shaven mug and scowled beneath his bushy eyebrows at
the new-comer.

"Morning, mate!" said Doggie pleasantly.

"Morning," said Chipmunk, resuming his work.

Doggie turned over a stable bucket and sat down on it and lit a
cigarette.

"Glad to be back?"

Chipmunk poised the cloth on which he had poured some brown dressing.
"Not if I has to be worried with private soljers," he replied. "I came
'ere to get away from 'em."

"What's wrong with private soldiers? They're good enough for you,
aren't they?" asked Doggie with a laugh.

"Naow," snarled Chipmunk. "