he passed on and, after many wanderings, found the door of the room where his sentence would be passed.  Bracing himself up and clearing his throat, he prepared to knock and enter.  Fortunately, however, his audacious intention was observed by an official and frustrated.  He was commanded to write something more about himself in the book provided for that purpose, and to go on waiting.  Being now an expert at writing and waiting he did as he was bid, spending the next few hours of his life remodelling his case in less fierce and glowing terms.

At last the door of the room persuaded itself to open and let out a real red god, who looked upon Hubert, took an instant dislike to him, relieved him of his ticket and went in again.  During the ensuing period of suspense the last vestige of Hubert’s personality departed from him.

Again the door opened and another red one, even more godlike, emerged clamouring for Hubert and his blood.  Had he still been in possession of his ticket (a necessary passport for egress) Hubert would have fled.  There was nothing for it but to confess his identity and to hope for mercy.  The god, who clearly had not more than three and a half seconds to spare, demanded an explanation of his presence.  Hubert admitted that once, in a moment of impudent folly, he had thought of asking for a day’s extension.  The god said nothing, but a light smouldered in his eyes which intimated to Hubert that if he did not at once produce some paramount excuse for so monstrous a request the War would be held up and the military machine would be concentrated on punishing Hubert.  His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; even if it had been available it would have helped little, for it is more than mere words that the gods require.  His hand searched in his pockets and produced the return half of his leave warrant, a five-franc note, a box of matches, a recently purchased paper flag and the politician’s secretary’s note.  The first and the last were taken, the rest fell to the floor, the door closed once more and again Hubert was alone.

Hubert doesn’t know what he did next; probably, he thinks, he sat down and wept, and it was his tears that induced the gods not to convert his ticket into a death-warrant, but instead to give him the slip, “Leave extended one day for urgent private business.”  This was clearly one of Hubert’s most decisive victories.  He had his day’s extension solely in order to interview the politician at 6 P.M.; he was to interview the politician solely in order to obtain his day’s extension.  But Hubert insists morbidly that his was a moral defeat, amounting to utter suppression.  He called upon the politician at 6 P.M. to thank him personally.  Again he could get no further than the secretary, who, learning that Hubert’s train would not depart at all that day, regretted that the politician would, on second thoughts, be out for a week.  “Now if I really had triumphed,” said Hubert, “I should have got the secretary to put that also in writing, and should have stepped round to the War Office again to demand a further week’s extension on the strength of it.”  This, however, he did not do.

    Yours ever, HENRY.