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 matter with it.” The cook gazed impassively at Brown’s face. “It looks just like it always did, worse luck. But then it ain’t the sort of face as is affected by little things like that. As the medical profession observed it is a norrible thing—your face. Ain’t it, Bob?”

This appeal for confirmation to the face’s owner touched me greatly. However, as I am quite unable to record the answer—and the rest of the conversation does not call for comment—I will pass on to the moment when I mentioned the shortage of condensed milk, and the failure up to the present to supply the genuine to an indignant mess. I may mention—en passant—that in a moment of imbecility I had permitted myself to be thrust into the position of mess caterer. The Doctor used to do it—but he fell in love, and was unable to do anything but play “Somewhere a Voice is Calling” on the gramophone. As the record was cracked, there was a general feeling of relief when the junior subaltern strafed a mouse with it. However, the doctor being beyond human help, his mantle descended on me. I was away when it did so—but that is by the