My address would be, etc., etc., London.
I am, Sir,
Your obedient Servant, etc., etc.
The Adjutant looked serious when he read it. So did Cook, for he
thought the Adjutant had noted the London address and had remembered
the business was in Bristol. But it was all right. It wasn't that
at all really. Pencil and squared paper are poor means of conveying
information at any time, and when the Adjutant had been assured that
the business was really "wholesale hardware," and not "wholesale
hardbake," as he had first read it, everything went swimmingly. The
C.O. signed it and off it went on its momentous journey. Cook began
to take a renewed interest in his platoon, and, having discovered the
recalcitrant one of No. 11 actually coming on parade with only the
front of the tip of his bayonet-scabbard polished, he took a fiendish
delight in seeing the criminal writhing under the brutal and savage
sentence of three days' C.B.
A week later he got a great surprise. His brother-partner turned
up with a draft of men and found himself posted to the battalion.
The brothers met, as only brothers can, with the words, "What the
deuce are you doing here?" Highly elated, Cook told him about the
application for business leave and gloated over his chances of being
home first, and on full pay too.
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