A chorus of derisive laughter greeted the announcement.  “Duty?” echoed the
Stunt Pilot bitterly. “What duty?”

The Adjutant took another furl in his bath-towel.

“If you really must know,” he said composedly, “I’m going to buy a vacuum-cleaner for the Mess.”

“You infernal old wangler!” cried the outraged Pilot, when at last he was able to make himself heard.  “Of course it takes forty-eight hours to buy a vacuum-cleaner, doesn’t it?”

“As a matter of fact,” said the Adjutant solemnly, “my whole experience of vacuum-cleaners leads me to the conviction that you have to look at a great many of them before you can pick a really good one.”  He glanced round for his clothes.  “And now if you fellows will get on with your baths, I’ve got an air mechanic coming in a minute or two to cut my hair.  I expect I shall be far too busy in town for the next two days to have any time to waste on barbers.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Farmer (to “land-lady").  “HI, MISSIE, WHAT BE YE DOIN’ WI TRACE-HORSE BEHIND, AND A LOAD LIKE THAT?”

“Land-lady.” “OH, WELL, YOU SEE, WHEN HE WAS IN FRONT HE WAS ALWAYS TURNING ROUND WRONG WAY ON, SO I JUST PUT HIM BEHIND TO HELP UP HILLS, LIKE THE RAILWAY ENGINES.”]

* * * * *

GENERAL POST.

Everything was just as usual.  I caught my tram at the corner of the street.  It was the six o’clock car—­I noticed the usual evening crowd, and they were all as bored and cross and frigid as usual.

The old gentleman of the whiskers was, as usual, reading his evening paper.  He looked personally affronted as I sat down beside him.  The elderly relative—­as I call her—­was opposite to me.  She had her small attache-case and her knitting as usual, and she made me feel at a glance that my face bored her intolerably.  For the rest, I saw the fat paterfamilias, the wish-I-had-a-motor lady, the pert flapper and all the crew who travel with dejected spirits to and fro on our suburban line.

So far all was in order.  Then the conductress came round.

“Tuppenny,” I murmured.  “Albemarle Road.”

“What’s your town?” she asked, taking a pencil from behind her ear.

“Town?  It’s Albemarle Road I want.”

“But what town do you choose for Post?” she asked.  “You’ve all got to have a town, you know.  Don’t make it too long.  Hurry up!  I’ve got to write you all down, and it’s time to begin.”

“Pontresina,” I gasped wildly.  That seemed to be the only town I had ever heard of.

“And you, Sir?” she was asking the old gentleman.

“Macclesfield,” he said very decidedly.

The elderly relative was fidgeting to say hers.  I could have guessed it would be St. Ives.

The conductress made her way from one end to the other.

“All got towns?” she asked.  “You, Sir?  Pernambuco?  I do wish you’d stick to English names.  Are you all ready?”