"----!" said the General. (I think I mentioned his partiality for the
vernacular). "Where's our vane?"
"It's up, Sir," said the O.O., shining proudly again, "and I--"
"We'll have' a look at it," and out they all went--General, Brigade Major
(enunciating pedantically after a fish breakfast), Staff Captain (bright
and birdlike), and the O.O. It was a brilliant spectacle.
"North is--there!" said the General in his best field-day manner, "and this
is pointing--due East!" He touched the vane gently. It did not budge. He
touched it again. A cold sweat broke out on the forehead of the O.O.
"Paralysed," said the B.M.
"Give it a 'stand-east,' Sir," said the Staff Captain.
"It's stiff!" said the General; "wants-oil" (pause); "wants _oil_!" and the
O.O. slid away, returning at once with oil (salad, bottle, one).
"Now pour it over the top--top, boy, top!"
A flood sprayed over the top flange, and the B.M. searched hastily for a
handkerchief.
"Making a salad of you?" said the General. "Ha! ha!"
The B.M. smiled a smile (sickly, one).
"That's better!" The General spun it round.
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