Word of Honour

Jimmy Staunton's soldier servant smiled tolerantly behind a large hand as he produced the fourth evening collar for his master's inspection. Three had already been hurled into a corner, with oaths and curses, as unfit for a chimney-sweep to wear, and he waited patiently for the verdict on the last. "What do they do with 'em, Wilton?" cried his master despairingly. "The blamed thing looks like a pleated skirt." His servant preserved a discreet silence as Staunton put it on; then he handed him a black tie. Few things are hidden from a man's personal batman, and Wilton realised the solemnity of the occasion. So much so, in fact, that when Jimmy, complete with overcoat and hat, was ready to leave his room, he permitted himself with a perfectly inscrutable face to say: "Good luck, sir." For a moment his master stared him; then a slow grin spread over his face. "Damn your eyes, Wilton. Go to blazes." "Very good, sir. Tea the same time to-morrow morning, sir?" But the door had already slammed behind the departing Jimmy. Should he, or should he not? That was the question. Point for: he loved her, and he felt tolerably sure that she rather more than liked him. Points against: he had exactly one hundred and fifty pounds a year beside his pay, and she couldn't expect any more than that, even if she got as much, from her father. For Tiny Tim-the nickname by which the said father was known wherever soldiers were gathered together-was notoriously not blessed with an overflow of this world's goods. Tiny Tim-or, to be more formal, Lieut.-Col. John Mayhew, C. M. G., D. S. O. and bar, etc.-was Jimmy's commanding officer. And Jimmy, in company with every other officer and man of the 1st battalion of the King's Royal Loamshires, would have cheerfully lain down and let the Colonel walk over them, if it would have afforded him any pleasure. And the trifling fact that the men felt the same about Jimmy is beside the point.