"Look at this, you blithering ass, look at this." The Colonel was searching through his Fortnum and Mason packing-case on the floor. "Great Heavens! and the caviar too--imbedded in the butter. Five defunct rodents in the brawn"--he threw each in turn at his servant, who dodged round the dug-out like a pea in a drum--"the marmalade and the pate de fois gras inseparably mixed together, and the whole covered with a thick layer of disintegrating cigar." "It wasn't me, sir," Murgatroyd spoke in an aggrieved tone. "I didn't suppose it was, you fool." The Colonel straightened himself and glared at his hapless minion. "Great Heavens! there's another rat on my hairbrush." "One of the same five, sir. It ricocheted off my face." With a magnificent nonchalance his servant threw it out of the door. "I think, sir, it must be James 'Enry." "Who the devil is James Henry?" "Sir Derek Temple's little dawg, sir." "Indeed." The Colonel's tone was ominous. "Go round and ask Sir Derek Temple to be good enough to come and see me at once." What happened exactly at that interview I cannot say; although I understand that James Henry considered an absurd fuss had been made about a trifle. In fact he found it so difficult to lie down with any comfort that night that he missed much of his master's conversation with him. "You've topped it, James, you've put the brass hat on. The old man threatens to turn out a firing party if he ever sees you again." James feigned sleep: this continual harping on what was over and done with he considered the very worst of form. Even if he had put the caviar in the butter and his foot in the marmalade--well, hang it all--what then? He'd presented the old buster with five dead rats, which was more than he'd do for a lot of people. "In fact, James, you are not popular, my boy--and I shudder to think what Monica will do with you when she gets you. She's come over, you may be pleased to hear, Henry. She is V.A.D.-ing at a charming hospital that overlooks the sea. James, why can't I go sick--and live for a space at that charming hospital that overlooks the sea? Think of it: here am I, panting to have my face washed by her, panting----" For a moment he rhapsodised in silence. "Breakfast in bed, poached egg in the bed: oh! James, my boy, and she probably never even thinks of me." He took a letter out of his pocket and held it under the light of the candle. "'Not much to do at present, but delightful weather. The hospital is nearly empty, though there's one perfect dear who is almost fit--a Major in some Highland regiment.' "Listen to that, James. Some great raw-boned, red-kneed Scotchman, and she calls him a perfect dear!" His listener blew resignedly and again composed himself to slumber.