We
are hard-pressed to find mischief for our idle hands to do.
Sherlock the Sleuth keeps himself in fair fettle by prowling round the
countryside and trying to restrain the aborigines from pinching what
little British material they have not already pinched. Yesterday he came
upon a fatigue party of Gauls staggering down a by-way under the shell
of an Armstrong hut. He whooped and gave chase. The Gauls, sighting the
A.P.M. brassard, promptly dumped the hut and dived through a wire fence.
Sherlock hitched his horse to a post and followed afoot, snorting fire
and brimstone. They led him at a smart trot over four acres of boggy
plough, through a brambly plantation, two prickly hedges and a
richly-perfumed drain and went to ground inextricably in some
mine buildings. He returned, blown, battered and baffled, to the
starting-point, to find that some third party had in the meantime
removed the Armstrong hut--also his horse.
Ronald, our only remaining Red Hat, saves his soul from boredom by
keeping all the H.Q. departments open and conducting, on his own, a
brisk correspondence between them. As there are about thirty of these
and he conducts them all himself it will be understood that this entails
a certain amount of movement on his part.
Bob, the Camp Commandant, spends his time trying to square his returns
and interviewing Violet.
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