“Well, I won’t grumble about that, although I’d arranged my programme differently.  But what about the box of Flor Fantomas I’m taking for the Major, and the bottle of whisky with which the skipper has entrusted me for the purpose of propitiating his projected father-in-law, to say nothing of the piece of Brussels lace which Binnie says is for his aunt.  Their combined weight will just about earn me a lifer.  I can see me wiring the War Office for an extension of leave on urgent business grounds—­nature of business, to enable applicant to complete term of penal servitude.”

“Don’t, Percival, old crumpet,” murmured Frederick, visibly affected; “the thought of you languishing in a felon’s cell, without cigarettes, gives me a pain in my heart.  Let me see what I can do for you.”

In a few minutes he was back, beaming.  “I’ve fixed it all right, mon lapin,” he said; “if the worst comes to the worst they’ll bail you out with the Mess funds.  But they won’t accept further responsibility.  The Major says, if a fellow who’s spent his whole career dodging duties can’t dodge the duty on a box of cigars he doesn’t deserve sympathy.”

So Percival proceeded on leave with a heavy bag and a heavier conscience.  On the boat he was greeted hilariously by Gillow the gunner and Sparkes the sapper, who invited him below to drink success to the voyage.  In order to give the voyage no chance of failure they continued to drink success to it until the vessel backed into Folkestone Harbour, when they felt their precautions might be relaxed.

“Thanks to our efforts we’ve arrived safely,” said Gillow as they strolled up on deck; “but the sight of jolly old England doesn’t seem to be moving you to mirth and song, Percival.  Why this outward-bound expression when we’re on the homeward tack, my hearty?”

“It’s the gnawing molar of conscience,” said Percival ruefully; “I’ve got a consignment of pink-ribboned parcels in my bag which I know to contain contraband and which I also suspect—­Frederick’s and Binnie’s anyway—­to contain amorous missives not meant for vulgar eyes.  If I deliver the parcels with the seals broken I shall get the glacial glare from the damsels concerned, and when I get back scorpions and poisoned bill-hooks will be too good for poor Percival.”

“Phew!” whistled Sparkes.  “They go through your baggage with a fine toothcomb nowadays.  Couldn’t you drop over the side with your bag and drift ashore on a deserted beach, disguised as a floating mine?”

“I’ve cut impersonations of hardware out of my repertoire since the day I failed to get past an R.T.O. disguised as a brass-hat,” said Percival sadly.  “I suppose I must fall back on direct action.  I’ve a feeling that England expects every man this day to pay his duty.”

On the quay there was the usual mad charge of porters.  Percival indicated his bag to one of them with a distracted air, and followed him to the Customs House guiltily.  The porter dumped the bag before an official, who had a piece of chalk hopefully poised between his fingers.