In due course he appeared in our reserve squadron and was detailed to my troop.  It did not take me many days to realise that I was up against the most practised malingerer in the British (or any other) army.  Did a fatigue prove too irksome; did the jumps in the riding-school loom too large; did the serjeant speak a harsh word unto him, “The Beachcomber” promptly went sick.  Malaria was his long suit.  By aid of black arts learned during those seven years sojourning with the heathen Chinee he could switch malaria (or a plausible imitation of it) on or off at will and fool the M.O.’s every time.  I used to interview them about it, but got scant sympathy.  The Healers’ Union brooks no interference from outsiders.

“Look here, that brute’s bluffing you,” I would protest.

To which they would make reply, “Can you give us any scientific explanation of how a man can fake his pulse and increase his temperature to 102 deg. by taking thought?  You can’t?  No, we didn’t suppose you could.  Good day.”

One person, however, I did succeed in convincing, and that was the C.O., who knew his East.  “Very good,” said he.  “If the skunk won’t be trained he shall go untrained.  He sails for France with the next draft.”

Nevertheless our friend did not sail with the next draft.  Ten minutes after being warned for it, the old complaint caught him again, and when the band played our lads out of barracks he was snugly tucked away in sick-bay with sweet girl V.A.D.’s coaxing him to nibble a little calves-foot jelly and keep his strength up.  Nor did he figure among either of the two subsequent drafts; his malaria wouldn’t hear of it.

I went back to the land of fireworks at the head of one of these drafts myself, freely admitting that John Fanshawe had the best of the joke.  He waved me farewell out of the hospital window by way of emphasising this.

The Babe followed me out shortly after, bringing about fifty men with him.  He strolled into Mess one evening and mentioned quite casually that The Beachcomber was in camp.

“How did you manage it?” we chorused in wonder.

“Heard the story of his leaving China and repeated the dose,” the Babe replied.  “Just before the draft was warned, my batman led him down to Mooney’s shebeen and treated him to the run of his throat—­at my expense.  He came all the way as baggage.”

Thus did John Fanshawe complete the second stage of his journey to the War.  He did not remain with us long, however; a fortnight at the most.

We were doing some digging at the time, night-work, up forward, in clay so glutinous it would not leave the shovels and had mainly to be clawed out by hand—­filthy, back-breaking, heart-rending labour.  On calling the roll one dawn I found that The Beachcomber was missing.

“Anybody seen anything of him?” I asked.

“Yessir, I did,” a man replied, and spat disgustedly.

“Well,” I inquired, “was he hit or anything?”