“Major Peter,” I said ingratiatingly, with a salute.  Peter turned round.  He was very red.

“I didn’t mean you to read all that rot,” he said.  “I meant what he says at the end.”

I read on—­this time in silence: 

I say, have you killed any Huns yet?  Very decent of the Head to tell your governor you could have an extra week.  We miss you at center forward.  So hurry up, but mind you don’t get torpeedod—­we hope they’ll just miss you.  It would be rotten luck if you never saw one.  We’ve given up German this term—­beastly language; it’s just like a Hun to keep the verb till the end, so that you never know what he’s driving at.

Then followed a sentence heavily underlined: 

By the way I’ll let you have that knife you wanted me to swop last
term if you’ll bring me a bayonet.  Only mind it’s got some blood on
it, German blood I mean.—­Yours to a cinder,

ARTHUR JACKSON.

I handed this priceless missive back to Peter.

“Cheek, isn’t it?” said Peter rather hurriedly.  “His old knife for a bayonet!”

“But if you put ‘the Front’ at the top of your letters, Major Peter, you can’t be surprised at his asking for one, you know.”

Peter blushed.

“Well, I heard Dad say we were the back of the Front, and the fellows wouldn’t think anything of me if I hadn’t been near the Front,” he said, apologetically.  “Hullo, they’re going up!”

An aeroplane was skimming along the ground as a moor-hen scuppers across the water, the mechanics having assisted her initial progress by pushing the lower stays and then ducking under the planes, as she gathered way, and just missing decapitation.  It’s a way they have.  She took a run for it, her engine humming like a top, and then rose, and gradually climbed the sky.  Peter gazed at her wistfully.  “And he promised to take me up some day,” he said sadly.

“Yes, some day, Peter,” I said encouragingly.  “But it’s time we were getting back.  You know you’ve got to catch the leave-boat at four o’clock this afternoon.”

* * * * *

Peter’s father and I stood on the quay, having taken farewell of Peter.  There was an eminent Staff Officer going home on leave—­a very great man at G.H.Q., a lieutenant-general, who inspired no less fear than respect among us all.  He knew Peter’s father in his distant way, and had not only returned his salute, but had even condescended to ask, in his laconic style, “Who is the boy?”—­whereupon Peter’s father had, with some nervousness, introduced him.  All the other officers going home on leave, from a Brigadier down to the subalterns, stood at a respectful distance, glancing furtively at the hawk-like profile of the great man, and lowering their voices.  It was a tribute not only to rank but to power.  As the ship gathered way and moved slowly out of the harbour I pulled the sleeve of Peter’s father.  “Look!” I said.  The Lieutenant-General and Peter were engaged in an animated conversation on the deck, and the great man, usually as silent as the sphinx and not less inscrutable, was evidently contesting with some warmth and great interest, as though hard put to keep his end up, some point of debate propounded to him by Peter.