The old world had rolled along for another twenty minutes ere McNab shifted his legs, cleared his throat, and interfered with what was left in his tankard. "I wonder," he said musingly to himself, "if these poor yobs over here will ever know the true 'istory of this bloomin' war?" Then back came a smile to his face and he shook his head, indicating, perhaps, that he had answered the question to his complete satisfaction. The joyousness at the thought of some of those unrecorded slices of military history caused my friend to drop again into a contemplative mood, and he started humming a little tune under his breath: Hello! Hello! who's your lady friend? Who's the little girlie by your side? I've seen you with a girl or two, Oh, oh, oh, I AM surprised at you! Hello! Hello! what's your little game? Don't you think it's time your ways to mend? That's not the gal I saw you with at Brighton, Oh, oh, oh, who's your lady friend? "If it is not a rude question," I ventured, after another few moments, "did you ever see the capture of a German spy over in France, Mr. McNab?" "Who are you getting at ... trying to pull my leg?" he demanded, with increased suspicion. "Come, come," I laughed, "let us agree to differ about our--er--inferior spy system." "Superior," he insisted. I surrendered before the gleam of his eye. Fool that I had been, ever to have imagined that I could conquer McNab's steely glance! "Superior then, if you prefer it." McNab's eyes, which had glared with indignation, lost their fire and assumed their normal expression of calm and relentless despotism, and the red flag of agitated displeasure disappeared from his tanned face. He seized with alacrity the olive branch (also another tankard of beer) which I held out to him. "The history of the British Army," he observed as he blew at his ale "'minds me of a married soldier's letter to his wife. The most interesting parts are all left out ... do you get me?" McNab tilted his hat at a perilous angle on one side of his head, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "Touching upon some of those unwritten exploits of the Army," I darkly hinted: "I'll bet I can find a brilliant historiographer not a hundred miles away from the 'Three Nuns' who could dictate a few of 'em that would fairly make the _Daily Mail_ turn green with envy--eh, McNab?" "I know the brilliant bloke you mean," my friend conceded modestly, "though calling me 'orrible names like that would brand you as a swanker or a gentleman wot had left his manners in the hall in any barrack room from here to Hindustan. When we were resting at Quality Street near Loos, for example"--he paused a moment, and with a playful dig from his banana-like thumb nearly knocked me on the floor--"why, name of a dog! There you have a case in point!" "A case of a swanker?" "A case of one of those spies. We caught the perisher. Begad, we did!"