him roaring out
that he too was going to take a long lease of a shack down Alabama way.

"Gad--she's immense! We must invite her to tea to-morrow," he said to me in
a whisper that shook the Nissen hut to its foundations. Slingswivel was no
vocal lightweight. Those people in Thanet and Kent who used to write to the
papers saying they could hear the guns in the Vimy Ridge and Messines
offensives were wrong. What they really heard was Major Slingswivel at
Nullepart expostulating with his partner for declaring clubs on a no-trump
hand.

"Very well," I answered sulkily. It wasn't the first time the Major had
been captivated by ladies with Southern syncopated tastes, and I knew I
should be expected to complete the party with the other lady member of the
troupe, Miss Dulcie Demiton, and listen to the old boy making very small
talk in a very large voice. I could see myself balancing a teacup and
trying to get in a word here and there through the barrage.

Still, there was no getting out of it, and next afternoon found our
quartette nibbling _petits gateaux_ in the only _patisserie_ in the
village. The Major was in fine fettle as the war-worn old veteran, and
Gwennie and Dulcie spurred him on with open and undisguised admiration.

"Now I'm in France," gushed Gwennie, "I want to see _everything_--where the
trenches were and where you fought your terrible battles."

"Delighted to show you," said Slingswivel, bursting with pride at being
taken for a combatant officer. "How about to-morrow?"

"Just lovely," cooed Gwennie. "We're showing at Petiteville in the evening,
but we shan't be starting before lunch."

"That gives us all morning," said the Major enthusiastically. "Miss
Gwennie, Miss Dulcie, Spenlow, we will parade to-morrow at 9.30."

I couldn't understand it. Naturally Gwennie, with her mind constantly set
on Alabama, couldn't be expected to be up in war geography, but the Major
knew jolly well that all the battles within reasonable distance of
Nullepart had been fought out with chits and indents. I put it to him that
it wasn't likely country for war thrills.

"Leave it to me," he said confidently.

So I left it, and when we paraded next morning where do you think the wily
old bird led us? Why, to the old training ground on the edge of the camp,
where the R.E.'s used to lay out beautifully revetted geometrical trenches
as models of what we were supposed to imitate in the front line between
hates. Having been neglec