The war having once put me in possession of my COX AND CO., I had very frequent recourse to them when in need of such solace as only money can bring. The time arrived when I applied in vain; the money had disappeared. Though I had no reason to suspect COX AND CO. of being dishonest I noticed a tone of assuredness and self-complacency in their letters strangely similar to that in my own, and I _knew_ that I was being dishonest, so I demanded to see my pass-book. It was a horrid sight, and it gave me seriously to think. How came it that the side of the book which showed my takings was so clear and easily to be understood, but the side which showed their takings wrapt in mystery and hieroglyphics such as not even the world's leading financiers and mathematicians could hope to unravel? My subaltern, being consulted, agreed with me; I would have had him carpeted by the C.O. at once if he hadn't. I stepped round to COX AND CO. and had it out with them verbally. After a discussion lasting half-an-hour, it was shown that I had been credited with a week's pay to which I wasn't entitled and that a month's income-tax, to which a grasping Government _was_ entitled, had not been deducted. I left the building ninety-three shillings worse off than I entered it. I gave COX AND CO. six months to go wrong in, and then called for that pass-book again. My eye fell upon a paying and deducting and refunding and readjusting of an item itself so shameful that it dared only appear under its initials. Why this oscillation? I asked myself. So we engaged upon another correspondence, and another interview took place, at which I was supported by my subaltern (who could multiply and add), and the bank-man was supported by a young lady (who could divide and subtract). At the end of a passionate discussion, which lasted fifty-seven minutes (forty-five of them being after closing time) the conclusion was arrived at that the total was correct to a halfpenny. Even COX AND CO. themselves were a bit surprised at that.