wasn't much else that time; but, you know, the War Office is severe on ragging these days.' Bobby stopped with a lop-sided smile.
'And then,' Eames went on, 'then Wontner said we'd done several pounds' worth of damage to his furniture.'
'Oh,' said The Infant, 'he's that kind of man, is he? Does he brush his teeth?'
'Oh yes, he's quite clean all over!' said Trivett; 'but his father's a wealthy barrister.'
'Solicitor,' Eames corrected, 'and so this Mister Wontner is out for our blood. He's going to make a first-class row about it—appeal to the War Office—court of inquiry—spicy bits in the papers, and songs in the music-halls. He told us so.'
'That's the sort of chap he is,' said Trivett. 'And that means old Dhurrah-bags, our Colonel, 'll be put on half-pay, same as that case in the Scarifungers' Mess; and our Adjutant 'll have to exchange, like it was with that fellow in the 73rd Dragoons, and there'll be misery all round. He means making it too hot for us, and his papa 'll back him.'
'Yes, that's all very fine,' said The Infant; 'but I left the Service about the time you were born, Bobby. What's it got to do with me?'
'Father told me I was always to go to you when I was in trouble, and you've been awfully good to me since he . . .'
'Better stay to dinner.' The Infant mopped his forehead.
'Thank you very much, but the fact is' Trivett halted.
