riding-school loom too large; did the serjeant speak a harsh word unto
him, "The Beachcomber" promptly went sick. Malaria was his long suit.
By aid of black arts learned during those seven years sojourning with
the heathen Chinee he could switch malaria (or a plausible imitation
of it) on or off at will and fool the M.O.'s every time. I used to
interview them about it, but got scant sympathy. The Healers' Union
brooks no interference from outsiders.

"Look here, that brute's bluffing you," I would protest.

To which they would make reply, "Can you give us any scientific
explanation of how a man can fake his pulse and increase his
temperature to 102° by taking thought? You can't? No, we didn't
suppose you could. Good day."

One person, however, I did succeed in convincing, and that was the
C.O., who knew his East. "Very good," said he. "If the skunk won't
be trained he shall go untrained. He sails for France with the next
draft."

Nevertheless our friend did not sail with the next draft. Ten minutes
after being warned for it, the old complaint caught him again, and
when the band played our lads out of barracks he was snugly tucked
away in sick-bay with sweet girl V.A.D.'s coaxing him to nibble a
little calves-foot jelly and keep his strength up. Nor did he figure
among either of the two subsequent drafts; his malaria wouldn't hear
of it.

I went back to the land of fireworks at the head of one of these
drafts myself, freely admitting that John Fanshawe had the best of