(_With the British Army in France._)
"I spotted him by the fountain-pen stains on his vest and the
thunderbolts sticking out of his pockets," said Frederick. "So I went
up to him and said, 'You are Wuffle of _The Daily Hooter_, the man who
wiped-up Whitehall and is now engaged in freezing-out France?"
"What did he say?" asked Percival.
"Whipped out a note-book and asked me to tell him all about it. I said
I was pining for the white cliffs of Albion and that the call of
the counting-house and cash-box was ringing in my ears, but that I
couldn't get demobilised because the Colonel's pet Pomeranian had
conceived a fancy for me and wouldn't take its underdone chop from
anyone else. I also hinted that I and a few friends could tell him
things that would make his biggest journalistic scoops look like
paragraphs in a parish magazine, so he invited me to bring you round
this afternoon to split an infinitive with him."
"Wuffle?" said Binnie. "That's the man who wrote about 'gilded
subalterns loafing luxuriously in cushioned cars in a giddy round of
useless and pampered ease'?"
"Well, I won't say he wrote it, but he signed it. No single man living
could write all the stuff Wuffle signs. It's turned out as they
turn out cheap motor-cars. One man roughs it out, passes it to the
adjective department, thence to the punctuation-room, where they
sprinkle it with commas and exclamation marks, and then Wuffle touches
it up, fits it with headlines and signs it. Oh, I forgot. Before it
goes to press the libel expert looks it over to see that it isn't
actionable."
"Anyway, he's the responsible party," said Binnie, "and I would fain
have converse with the Wuffle. That 'gilded subaltern' bit was ringing
in my head like a dirge the other night when I was wearily trudging
the seven kilometres from St. Denis camp because there was no one to
give me a lift."
That afternoon Frederick introduced his friends to Wuffle.
"Sorry we're late," he said, "but Percival and Binnie here have
been engaged with the Pioneer-Sergeant discussing the best method of
converting a whippet-tank into a roller for the tennis-courts."
At that moment a motor-lorry rumbled by, and Binnie, recollecting a
passage in Wuffle's latest article about "motor-lorries rushing madly
about with apparently no purpose in view," jumped excitedly to the
door.
"'Magneto Maggie' leading," he shouted, "and 'The Sparking Spitfire'
is just behind. Care to double your bet on 'Maggie' at evens,
Percival?"
"Not yet," replied Percival cautiously. "It's only the first lap yet,
and 'Maggie' sometimes jibs a bit when she passes the Remount Depot."
Wuffle had his fountain-pen at the alert and looked inquiringly at
Frederick.
"I suppose it _is_ another example of deliberate waste," said the
latter. "But we've got the lorries eating their heads off in the
garages and the petrol is simply aching to be evaporated, so we give
the drivers exercise and ourselves some excitement over organising
these Area Circuit Steeplechases."
"Why not trans-ship the lorries?" suggested Wuffle.
"That would never do, old prune," said Frederick. "The troops would
have nothing to guard."
"Send the men home," persisted Wuffle.
"Come, my willowy asparagus," replied Frederick in horrified tones,
"we must have troops to find us work to do. Of course it's sometimes
difficult to keep the men employed, and then we have to make dumps of
empty biscuit tins and things for them to guard."
"I fixed up a real beauty at Le Glaxo, not ten kilometres from here,"
chipped in Percival. "If you'd like to see it there's a train going in
about twenty minutes."
Wuffle jumped up with alacrity.
"I'd be awfully glad to get a snapshot of it," said he, disappearing
in search of his hat and coat.
Frederick took the opportunity to make a few scathing remarks to
Percival.
"It's just like you, you mouldy old citron," he said. "I start a
little experiment in _tirage de jambe_, and you put your heavy hoof
in and spoil the whole business. You know jolly well that Le Glaxo was
completely closed down months ago."
"Oh, put another penny in your brain-meter and try to realise that
you aren't the only one who's grown up," replied Percival impatiently.
"Your brain-waves move about as quick as G.P.O. telegraph messages.
I'd got the scheme worked out while you were putting over your old
musical-comedy gags."
Since the departure of the British, Le Glaxo's only excitement is the
arrival of its one train per day. Ignoring the sensation caused by
the detraining of four persons simultaneously, Percival led his party
along a muddy rough lane.
"The dump is about four kilometres away and the road gets rather bad
towards the end," he said, maliciously edging Wuffle into a bit of
swamp. "Sorry; I was going to warn you about that."
Wuffle scraped mud from his trousers and followed the leader over a
rough wall into a hidden ditch. A breathless climb up a hill and a
steady trudge over plough-land found Wuffle still game, but, after
he had got his camera ready for action on the cheerful assurance that
they were nearing their quarry, a disappointed cry from the leader
dashed his hopes.
"Hang it!" said Percival, "I forgot. The dump was moved to Pont
Antoine last Tuesday. Come along; it's only three kilometres away."
Strangely enough, Pont Antoine was also a blank. Binnie suggested
trying Monceau, two kilometres further on; but when they arrived
there, fatigued and dirty, a thin drizzle was falling and it was
almost dark. Percival confessed himself baffled.
"I'm awfully sorry," said he to Wuffle; "I can't find it now, and
the point is how are we going to get back? There isn't a railway for
miles."
"Don't any of our lorries or cars pass here?" asked Wuffle.
"Oh, yes. But they won't give _you_ a lift. The orders are dead strict
against civilians riding in W.D. vehicles."
"It's the result of the articles in the papers about waste," said
Frederick sympathetically. "But I don't suppose there would be any
objection to your hanging on and running behind."
Wuffle looked round disconsolately. In the gloom the lighted windows
of the tiny Hotel de l'Univers blinked invitingly.
"I think I'll stop here for the night," he said, "and telephone for a
car to fetch me to-morrow."
"Right-o!" said Percival. "And when it's thoroughly light you
might--you _might_ be able to find the dump. So long."
As they rumbled uncomfortably home on a fortuitous three-ton lorry,
Percival looked round for applause.
"_C'est bien fait, mon vieux_," chuckled Binnie. "I'll bet the Wuffle
won't go dump-hunting again in a hurry. And he won't be able to do any
damage from that little estaminet for a day or two."
* * * * *
The well-advertised series of articles in _The Daily Hooter_ commenced
a few days later. The conspirators studied them diligently in gleeful
anticipation of finding their contribution to journalistic enterprise.
It came at the end, in a brief paragraph.
"When I had collected my material for this powerful indictment, etc.,
etc." (ran the article), "I met a party of irresponsible subalterns
bent on the old, old army pastime of leg-pulling. For the sake of
exercise and amusement I permitted them to conduct me on a wild-goose
chase after an imaginary dump, which luckily led me to a sequestered
little hotel where I was able to write my articles in peace and
quietude. But to return to the main question. I unhesitatingly
affirm..."
Percival, who was reading aloud, let the paper fall limply from his
hand.
"Frederick," he said, "put your biggest boots on and kick me. The
word-merchant was laughing at us all the time."
* * * * *
[Illustration: COMMERCIAL CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.