Suddenly the fire of inspiration lit his eye and he came for me. I struggled with the clamp, but it clave like a bull-terrier to a mutton chop. In a moment he had me by the head and started to mould it nearer to his heart's desire with plump powerful hands. He crammed half my lower jaw into my breast pocket, pinned my ears back so tightly that they wouldn't wag for weeks, pressed my nose down with his thumb as though it were the button of an electric bell and generally kneaded my features from the early Hibernian to the late Græco-Roman. Then, before they could rebound to their normal positions, he had sprung back, jerked the lanyard and fired the camera. Some weeks later the finished photographs arrived. The handmaids had done their bit, and the result was a pleasing portraiture, an _objet d'art_, an ornament to anybody's family album. The man Valpré was an artist all right. A few days ago the Skipper whistled me into the orderly room. His table was littered with parade states, horse-registers and slips of cardboard, all intermingled. The Skipper himself appeared to be undergoing some heavy mental disturbance. His forehead was furrowed, his toupet rumpled, and he sucked his fountain-pen, unconsciously imbibing much dark nourishment. "Identification cards," he explained, indicating the slips. "Got to carry 'em now. Comply with Italian regulations. Been trying to describe you. Napoo." He prodded the result towards me. I scanned it and decided he had got it mixed with horse-registers. It read as follows:-- Born . . . . . . . Yes. Height . . . . . . 17 hands. Hair . . . . . . . Bay. Eyes . . . . . . . Two. Nose . . . . . . . Undulating. Moustache . . . . Hogged. Complexion . . . . Natural. Special Marks . . The Skipper pointed to the blank space. "That's what I want to know--special marks. Got any? Snip, blaze, white fetlock, anything?" "Yessir," said I. "Strawberry patch on off gaskin." He sucked thoughtfully at his fountain-pen. "Mmph," he said, "shouldn't mention it if I were you. Don't want to have to undress in the middle of the street every time you meet an Intelligence, do you?" I agreed that I did not--not before June, anyhow. The Skipper turned to the card again and frowned. "Couldn't call it a speaking likeness exactly, this little pen-picture of you, could one? If you only had a photograph of yourself now." "I have, Sir," said I brightly. "Good Lord, man, why didn't you say so before? Here, take this and paste the thing in. Now trot away." I trotted away and pasted Valpré's _objet d'art_ on to the card.