trench mortar emplacements; dangerous men with machine guns sit up and take notice, and demand concrete and other abominations; while last, but not least, the medical profession demand secret and secure places in which to practise their nefarious trade. Finally, the Ordnance Department is with one always. It was that branch of the great Machine which caused the frown on the face of the Sapper Captain, hitherto alluded to as the O.C., while next door the batman cleared the breakfast table.
"We're six bicycles short, you say, Quartermaster-Sergeant?" he exclaimed irritably, gazing at some papers in front of him, while he filled his pipe.
"Yes, sir; and two more with wheels buckled, and three that free-wheel both ways."
"What d'you mean—free-wheel both ways?"
"The pedals rotate, sir, with great speed, but the bicycle remains motionless." When a man habitually calls an armchair, A chair, arm—Officers, for the use of, one—his conversation is apt to become stilted.
"How were the wheels buckled?" demanded the Captain when he had digested this great thought.
"Two of the officers, sir—playing what I believe they called bicycle polo with a brick and two pick-helves—had—er—a slight mishap."
"When did it happen?"
"Er—after dinner, sir, one night." The N.C.O. looked tactfully out of the window.
The officer did not pursue the topic. "Well, what about these six that have been lost?"
