And it was so with the officials of the Pitt League. They all maintained that it was their greatest delight to be of service to the camp, that they were collectivists of the truest and most practical kind. Yet they were only human, and when they saw lazy officers reaping where they had themselves sown, the wedge of justice slipped itself beneath the barrier of their altruism. The elemental idea of “mine and thine” once firmly planted, strengthened and took root. They felt the need of recompense. For some time they were in doubt as to the dress in which public gratitude should be arrayed. But at last the shorthand expert was gifted with an inspiration. Triumphantly he bore his commodity to the premier. “Sir, couldn’t we have precedence in queues?” “Precedence, Wilkins?” “Yes, Sir, we have such a lot to do, that really we have not time to waste half the morning in queues. Couldn’t we have a pass or something so that we could go straight in?” “Oh, yes, admirable, Wilkins, admirable. A Priority Pass, the very thing.” And so the abuse of privilege began. The camp, not realising what it would lead to, received this news with equanimity. “Quite right too,” was the general opinion. “These fellows do a lot of work. They have not got too much spare time.” Within a day or two the opinion changed. For holders of passes always used them at the same time, that is, when it was most inconvenient to the rest of the queue. For the chief joy of a privilege lies in the flaunting of it before the eyes of the less fortunate. There were low murmurs of resentment. Two afternoons later I met Stone in the last stage of exasperation. After a stream of abuse, the “sad accidents of his tragedy” became clear. It was a wet, windy afternoon, and Stone had been waiting in the “cheque” queue for over an hour. He was heartily sick of it, but had been particularly anxious to draw his money before roll-call, having booked the billiard-table for immediately afterwards. And it had really looked as though he would be just in time. Five more minutes, and he was fourth in the queue; a minute a man. It should have worked out all right. Slowly the queue had moved forwards. Too slowly for Stone. There had been a delay of almost two minutes, because some ass had not been able to remember the amount of his cheque. Numerous sheets had to be turned over. It was “a bit thick.” But at last the three men in front of him had been disposed of. With a minute to spare, he had just been about to walk into the office, when a voice had bawled, “Half a minute,” and a diminutive captain had rushed up panting. “Just in time.” “Afraid you won’t get in before roll-call,” Stone had said, sunning himself in his serenity. “Oh, that’s all right. I’ve got a Priority Pass.” “A what?” “A Priority Pass.” “But what for?” “Botany. Ah, there’s that fellow coming out. My turn, cheerioh.” And thirty seconds later the bell had gone for roll-call.