disappeared from civilised ken for seven merciful years.

In June, 1914, he beat back into port in a fancifully decorated junk,
minus one ear and two fingers, but plus a cargo of jingling genuine
money. He hired the bridal suite in the leading hotel, got hold of a
fleet of motor cars and a host of boon companions, lived on a diet
of champagne cocktails and splashed himself about with the carefree
abandon of a dancing dervish.

By the middle of July he was "on the beach" again and once more began
to haunt the Consular office babbling of his influential relations and
his "temporary embarrassment."

When war broke out he had thrown up the sponge altogether and "gone
yellow"; was living from hand to mouth among the Chinese. At the
end of August a ship touched at that Far Eastern port, picking up
volunteers for the Western Front. The port contributed a goodly
number, but there remained one berth vacant. The long-suffering Consul
had a stroke of inspiration. Here was a means of at once swelling
the man-power of his country and ridding himself of a pestilent
ne'er-do-well. His boys, searching far and wide, discovered John
Fanshawe in the back premises of a Malay go-down, oblivious to all
things, and bore him inanimate aboard ship.

In this manner did our hero answer The Call.

In due course he appeared in our reserve squadron and was detailed
to my troop. It did not take me many days to realise that I was up
against the most practised malingerer in the British (or any
other) army. Did a fatigue prove too irksome; did the jumps in the