A crop of full-bodied beads appeared on the Brigade Major's brow.
His right hand was paralysed by the unceasing grip of the receiver.
There was a strained look in his eyes as of a man watching for the
ration-party.
"S-something," he said, calmly and surely mastering his
fate--"s-something is happening to-night."
"You're a cheery sort of bloke, aren't you?"
"Good God, are you cracked or what? There's a--"
"Careful, careful!" called the General from his comfortable chair in
the other room.
"O-oh!" sang the mosquito voice, "_now_ I know what you mean. You want
to know what time our--er--ha! ha! you know--the--er--don't you?"
"The--ha! ha! yes"--they leered frightfully at each other; it was a
horrible spectacle. No one would think that Possum had so much latent
evil in him.
"We sent you the time mid-day."
"Well, we haven't had it. C-can you give me any indication, w-without
actually s-saying it, you know?"
"Well now," said the mosquito, "You know how many years' service I've
got? Multiply by two and add the map square of this headquarters."
"Well, look here," it sang again, "you remember the number of the
billet where I had dinner with you three weeks ago? Well, halve that
and add two."
"Half nine and add two" (_aside_: "These midnight mathematics will be
the death of me--ah! that's between six and seven?").
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