“Fool?” said old Jim. “I’d like to meet the fellow. He’s the first fellow I’ve ever met yet who has a just appreciation of the brain capacity of the Staff. You or I might have thought of reporting a dog’s mew, or roar, or bellow; but a dog’s bark we should have thought of no interest whatever to the--er--fellows up there, you know, who plan our destinies.” And he gave an obsequious flick of his hand to an imaginary person too high up to see him at all. “He’s a good fellow,” he repeated, “that intelligence officer. Ought to get a D.S.O.” Old Jim had two South African medals, a D.C.M. and a D.S.O. “The Staff,” he went on, with the greatest contempt he could put into his voice. “I saw three of them in a car to-day. I stood to attention: saluted. A young fellow waved his hand, you know; graciously accepted my salute, you know, and passed on leaning back in his limousin. The ‘Brains of the British Army,’ I thought. Pah!” We waited. Jim on the Staff was the greatest entertainment the battalion could offer. We tried to draw him out further, but he would not be drawn. We tried cunningly, by indirect methods, enquiring his views on whether there would be a push this year. “Push!” he said. “Of course there will be a push. The Staff must have something to show for themselves. ‘Shove ’em in,’ they say; ‘rather a bigger front than last time.’ Strategy? Oh, no! That’s out of date, you know. Five-mile front--frontal attack. Get a few hundred thousand mown down, and then discover the Boche has got a second line. The Staff. Pah!!” And no more would he say. Then Clark came in, and the Manchester Stokes gun officer. Clark immediately joined Owen in a duet on “Florrie.” Then we went through the whole gamut of popular songs, with appropriate actions and stamping of feet upon the floor. Meanwhile the table was cleared, only the whiskey and Perrier remaining. Soon there were cries of “Napoleon--Napoleon,” and Owen, who bears a remarkable resemblance to that great personage, posed tragically again and again amid great applause. And then, in natural sequence, I, as “Bill, the man wot won the Battle of Waterloo,” attacked him with every species of trench-mortar I could lay hands on, my head swathed in a remarkable turban of _Daily Mail_. At last I drove him into a corner behind a table, and bombarded him relentlessly with oranges until he capitulated! All the time Edwards had been in fear and trembling for the safety of his gramophone. At length peace was signed, and we grew quiet again beneath the soothing strains of the gramophone, until at last Jim Potter said he must really go. Everyone reminding everyone else that breakfast was at seven, we broke up the party, and Owen, Paul, Jim Potter and I departed together. But anyone who knows the psychology of conviviality will understand that we had first to pay a visit to a neighbouring Mess for one last whiskey-and-soda before turning in.