Bertram Borstal turned out his pockets and spread their contents on the
table before him. There were seven postage stamps perforated with the
initials of his late employers, one three-penny-bit in silver, twopence
in copper, and a Bank of England note for 10_s._ "Irretrievably ruined!"
he muttered with closed lips. "I will offer my services to my country. I
will enlist."
He enlisted successfully until he reached the medical examination. The
doctor thrust a shoe-horn into Bertram's mouth. "Count up to 99," he
said. "Ug--koog--hee--haw--," Bertram began.
"That'll do," remarked the doctor, closing the jaws with a snap. "Any
constitutional ailment?"
Bertram blushed heavily. "Only chronic dyspepsia," he admitted at
length. The doctor gave a long whistle. Mistaking the sound a taxicab
drew up.
"You'd better jump in," he said kindly, taking Bertram's hand and
putting it inadvertently into his own pocket. "I regret to say I cannot
pass you for the Army."
"Ploughed!" exclaimed our hero. "But if I cannot go as a soldier I will
go as a spy. Drive me to Wigson's," he called to the taxi-driver as he
leapt on to a passing bus.
Half-an-hour later Bertram, disguised in the uniform of a spy, turned up
the Strand and his coat-collar simultaneously and walked rapidly to
Charing Cross station. He just managed to scramble into the 2.19 as it
steamed from the platform at 3.7.