“Paralysed,” said the B.M.

“Give it a ‘stand-east,’ Sir,” said the Staff Captain.

“It’s stiff!” said the General; “wants-oil” (pause); “wants oil!” and the O.O. slid away, returning at once with oil (salad, bottle, one).

“Now pour it over the top—­top, boy, top!”

A flood sprayed over the top flange, and the B.M. searched hastily for a handkerchief.

“Making a salad of you?” said the General.  “Ha! ha!”

The B.M. smiled a smile (sickly, one).

“That’s better!” The General spun it round.  “What’s it say now?  East!”

“Better wait,” said the B.M., “it’ll change its mind in a minute.”

“It’s going!” cried the General excitedly.  “There!  Well, I’m—­West!”

“The padre was right—­it must be a fireguard, after all,” said the Staff Captain.

“Or a s-sundial,” muttered the B.M.

I believe the meteorological report was finally entered as:  “Wind light to moderate (to strong), varying from East to West (via North and South).”

“Of course,” said the General kindly to the O.O., “it’s not quite perpendicular, it’s a bit too low; wants a stronger prop, wires are a bit slack, the vane itself wants looking to, and the whole thing is in rather a bad position, but otherwise it’s all right—­quite all right.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the O.O.

“And there’s too much oil,” added the General, as he moved off.

“There is,” said the B.M., discovering another blob on his shiny boots, “and on m-me!”

* * * * *

The Staff were unaccountably late.  The O.O. breakfasted alone.  For three days he had been the despair of the small and perspiring body of pioneers, who towards the end had fled at the mere sight of him.  But at last the vane was working.

“Well,” said the General when he came in, “how’s the wind, expert?”

“N.N.E.,” said the O.O. proudly. (It was the first thing he had done since he came on the Brigade three weeks before, and he was pleased at the interest the Staff had taken in his little achievement.) “I’ve had the pioneers working on it, and we’ve got it up another four feet, Sir, tightened the pole, and wired it on to the supports on every side.  It’s quite perpendicular now.  I’ve marked out the points of the compass on it, and fixed up a little arrangement for gauging the strength of the wind—­that flap thing, you know, Sir—­”

“Yes, yes,” said the General, who seemed to have lost his first keenness, “I’m glad it’s working all right.  By the way, we shall be moving from here to-morrow; the division’s going back.”

The O.O. drained the teapot in silence, and was glad it was strong and bitter.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  AT OUR COMPANY SMOKER.

The Major (sings).  “AND WE DIDN’T CARE A BUTTON IF THE ODDS WERE ON THE FOE TEN—­TWENTY—­THIRTY—­FORTY—­”