Next morning, crouched on the bottom boards of another taxi, he was taken to his tailor, poured himself into the faithful fellow’s hands, and only departed when guaranteed to be absolutely A.P.M.-proof.  He went to the “Bolero” for lunch, ordered some oysters for a start, polished them off and bade the waiter trot up the consomme.  The waiter shook his head, “Can’t be done, Sir.  Subaltern gents are only allowed three and sixpenceworth of food and you’ve already had that, Sir.  If we was to serve you with a crumb more, we’d be persecuted under the Trading with the Enemy Act, Sir.  There’s an A.P.M. sitting in the corner this very moment, Sir, his eyeglass fixed on your every mouthful very suspicious-like—­”

“Good Lord!” said the Babe, and bolted.  He bolted as far as the next restaurant, had a three-and-sixpenny entree there, went on to another for sweets, and yet another for coffee and trimmings.  These short bursts between courses kept his appetite wonderfully alive.

That afternoon he ran across a lady friend in Bond Street, “a War Toiler enormously interested in the War” (see the current number of Social Snaps).  She had been at Yvonne’s trying on her gauze for the Boccaccio Tableaux in aid of the Armenians and needed some relaxation.  So she engaged the Babe for the play, to be followed by supper with herself and her civilian husband.  The play (a War-drama) gave the Babe a fine hunger, but the Commissionaire (apparently a Major-General) who does odd jobs outside the Blitz took exception to him.  “Can’t go in, Sir.”  “Why not?” the Babe inquired; “my friends have gone in.”  “Yessir, but no hofficers are allowed to obtain nourishment after 10 p.m. under Defence of the Realm Act, footnote (a) to para. 14004.”  He leaned forward and whispered behind his glove, “There’s a Hay Pee Hem under the portico watching your movements, Sir.”  The Babe needed no further warning; he dived into his friends’ Limousine and burrowed under the rug.

* * * * *

Sometime later the door of the car was opened cautiously and the moon-face of the Major-General inserted itself through the crack.  “Hall clear for the moment, Sir; the Hay Pee Hem ’as gorn orf dahn the street, chasin’ a young hofficer in low shoes.  ’Ere, tyke this; I’m a hold soldier meself.”  He thrust a damp banana in the Babe’s hand and closed the door softly.

Next morning the Babe dug up an old suit of 1914 “civies” and put them on.  A woman in the Tube called him “Cuthbert” and informed him gratuitously that her husband, twice the Babe’s age, had volunteered the moment Conscription was declared and had been fighting bravely in the Army Clothing Department ever since.  Further she supposed the Babe’s father was in Parliament and that he was a Conscientious Objector.  In Hyde Park one urchin addressed him as “Daddy” and asked him what he was doing in the Great War; another gambolled round and round him making noises like a rabbit.  In Knightsbridge a Military Policeman wanted to arrest him as a deserter.  The Babe hailed a taxi and, cowering on the floor, fled back to his hotel and changed into uniform again.