My Dear CHARLES,--Have I ever, in the course of these SECRET and
CONFIDENTIAL despatches, called your lordship's attention to the
existence, the very marked existence, of our Hubert, "the little
Captain," who, being out of the battle for the moment, relies upon
argument for argument's sake to keep up his circulation? It
has been said of him that he spends his office time in writing
superior letters to his subordinates and insubordinate letters to
his superiors; but that, I think, is over harsh. In any case, as
he has now run short of grievances, and the authorities of the
B.E.F. regard him as a joke and like him best when his little
temper is hot, his fights out here have for some time lacked
reality. I fancy that he was merely in search of a _casus belli_
when, being on leave in the U.K., he conceived the idea of a day's
extension and stepped round to the War Office to demand same as of
right.
But the War Office, Charles, is not as other places and War
Officers are not like the common sort. Hubert, arriving in his
best fighting trim, was at once ejected by the policeman at the
door. He underestimated the importance of that official and
his office, otherwise he would not have adopted the
just-dropping-in-to-have-a-chat-with-a-friend-inside attitude.
From the constable's cold response he realised that, in tackling
the W.O. single-handed, he was attempting a big thing, whereas the
W.O., in tackling him, was not under the same disadvantage. Then
he did what was unusual with him; he paused to think before
resuming the offensive. What he wanted, he felt, was big guns. The
House of Commons caught his eye and reminded him of politicians.
He recalled a slight acquaintance with one of the more important
of these and went round to call upon him personally. It was not
his idea to obtain any such authority as would demolish all
opposition at the W.O.; he just hoped to get a personal chit,
which would act as a smoke barrage and at least cover his advance
right into the middle of the enemy defences.
So Hubert asked for the politician in person, but only got his
secretary. This gentleman, having elicited that Hubert's train for
France left at 5 P.M., regretted that the politician would not be
visible till 6. This opposition warmed Hubert's blood; he asked
for a statement in writing. After some little discussion he got
it, since the secretary, for all his caution, could see no harm in
an unofficial note, addressed to no one in particular, and stating
merely that Hubert wanted to see the politician and the politician
was out till 6 P.M.
The little captain is one of those who state their grievances to
themselves, when no other audience is available. During his
return journey to the W.O. mental processes of no little heat and
significance took place in his busy head, he putting up an
overwhelming case to show why his leave ought to be, and must be,
extended. The force of this case gave him such a burning sense of
justice as to carry him, this time, safely past the policeman.
Five rows of barbed wire, two of them electrified, would be but a
poor substitute for the barriers of the W.O. Before you set foot
on the staircase you have to produce a ticket, and it is supposed
that the porter, who has the forms to be filled in, forfeits a
day's pay every time he parts with one. Hubert, gradually losing
confidence, wrote upon the form all he could think of about
himself, and handed it to the porter, who received it with
reluctance, read it with suspicion, and disappeared with a grunt.
What he did with it is not known; probably someone got into
communication with the B.E.F. to know if such a person as Hubert
existed, and, if so, why? Meanwhile Hubert had good time to
realise that no one loved him and that this was cold brutal war at
last.
Bit by bit the porter drifted back and gave Hubert his form, now
stamped and become his ticket. The porter having finished with
him, 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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "GOOD 'EVINGS! WHERE YER GOIN'?"
"YE KEN YON THREE HUNS I JUST BROUGHT IN? WEEL, THEY WANT TO PLAY
WHIST, AN' I'M GOING BACK TO TRY AND PICK UP A FOURRTH."]
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"Southport, December 9th.--Miss ---- presented vegetarian
literature and a box of vegetarian sausages to a Sale of Work in
connection with the United Methodist Church, High Park. The gifts
led to much thought and inquiry."--_Vegetarian Messenger_.
In spite of a natural disinclination to look a gift sausage in the
mouth.
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