The Secretary is sick. He lies in his little bed-room office and reads the latest magazines and gossips with his visitors while I attempt to run the hut single-handed. At times during this last week I have been strongly tempted to get sick myself. Indeed I think I probably would have done so if it hadn’t been for Snow. Snow, Snowball or Ivory as he is variously called, is Battery D’s albino cook. “Say, ain’t I the whitest-haired beggar you ever did see?” he asked me the other day in a sort of naive wonder at himself. “Anyway, nobody ever had a cleaner-looking cook,” remarked the Top Sergeant, ex-Mess Sergeant. Snow has the sweetest disposition in the world. “If Snow was starving to death,” declared one of the boys to me today, “and somebody gave him a sandwich, and he thought you were the least bit hungry, he’d give you that sandwich.” Ever since the Secretary has been sick, Snow has been bringing him toast and eggs and things while he has brought me lemon pies, the most wonderful lemon pies that ever I tasted. Already Snow has come to be looked upon by the boys as an authority on all things pertaining to the canteen and has to stand a battery of searching questions, such as, whether he thinks that my hair is really all my own? Just to add to all our other troubles this week we have run amuck of the Major. This I suspect was all my fault. I was furious because when he came into the hut he made the boys stand at attention. This was something I had never seen done before and is, I am sure, contrary to all the rules. I was so angry that when the Major came up to the counter I stood and glared at him. “You will find the Secretary in his office,” I said and turned and walked out the back door. It was the Major’s turn to be angry then. He stalked out behind the counter, looking for trouble, and began to hold an inspection in the kitchen. The Secretary appeared, the Major let loose. That kitchen, he declared, was not up to army standards in cleanliness. This was a matter of utmost importance. Hereafter the medical officer would inspect the kitchen daily. Then he proceeded to prescribe a schedule of canteen hours outside of which nothing at all must be sold. Now I admit that kitchen hasn’t been quite all it might be. It is a small, overcrowded place, built of rough dirty boards and there are no shelves, nor of course running water, nor conveniences of any kind. Moreover, the Major, I learn, has the reputation of being a tartar in this respect; “Major Mess Kit” they call him because of the rigour of his inspections.