“But it is monstrous:  preposterous!  There is not time.  It would take a week to get these signatures, and I tell you my men are dying.”

“I can’t help that; you must proceed according to rule.”

“It’s little short of murder!” said the doctor, now furious.

“And what can I do for you?” said Mr. Dawber, ignoring this remark, and turning to another applicant, a quartermaster of the Guards.

“I have come for six bags of coffee.”

“Where is your requisition?”

The quartermaster produced a large sheet of foolscap, covered with printing and ruled lines, a mass of figures, and intricate calculations.

Mr. Dawber seized it, and proceeded to verify the totals, which took him half-an-hour.

“This column is incorrectly cast; in fact, the form is very carelessly filled in.  But you shall have the coffee—­if we can find it.”

Further long delay followed, during which Mr. Dawber and his assistant rummaged the heterogeneous contents of his overcrowded store, and at last he produced five bags, saying—­

“You will have to do with this.”

“But it is green coffee,” said the quartermaster, protesting.  “How are we to roast it?”

“That’s not my business.  The coffee is always issued in the green berry.  You will find that it preserves its aroma better when roasted just before use.”

“We should have to burn our tent-poles or musket-stocks to cook it,” said the quartermaster.  “That stuff’s no use to me,” and he went away grumbling, leaving the bags behind him.

McKay followed him out of the store.

“You won’t take the coffee, then?”

“Certainly not.  I wish I had the people here that sent out such stuff.”

“May I have it?”

“If you like.  It’s all one to me.”

“Give me the requisition, then.”

Armed with this important document, he returned, and accosted Mr. Dawber.

“He has changed his mind about the coffee.  You can give it to me; I will see that he gets it.  Here is the requisition.”

The commissariat officer was only too pleased to get rid of the bags according to form.

McKay next attacked him about the greggos.  Despairing, after all he had heard, of getting them by fair means, he resolved to try a stratagem.

“You received yesterday, I believe, a consignment from the Burlington Castle?”

“Quite so.  There are the chests, still unpacked.  I have not the least idea what’s inside.”

“You have the bill of lading, I suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“May I look at it?  I come from the Burlington Castle, and the captain thinks he was wrong to have sent you the cases without passing the bill of lading through the commissariat officer at headquarters.”

“I believe he is right.  Here is the bill; it has not Mr. Fielder’s signature.  This is most irregular.  What shall I do?”