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?"