"The essence of the Secret Service, sir," replied this maddening
young man, "is--well--secrecy."
"You had a billet offered to you, of the kind you describe?"
"The offer reached me, very much belated, one day when I was half
dead, after having performed some humiliating fatigue duty. I
think I had persisted in trying to scratch an itching back on
parade. Military discipline, I need not tell you, Major, doesn't
take into account the sensitiveness of a recruit's back. It flatly
denies such a phenomenon. Now I think I can defy anything in God's
quaint universe to make me itch. But that's by the way. I tore the
letter up and never answered it. You do these things, sir, when
the whole universe seems to be a stumbling-block and an offence.
Phyllis was the stumbling-block and the rest of the cosmos was the
other thing. That's why I have reason on my side when I say that,
all through Phyllis Gedge, I made an ass of myself."
He clutched his rude coat with both hands. "An ass in sheep's
clothing."
He drew himself up, saluted, and marched out.
He marched out, the young scoundrel, with all the honours of war.
CHAPTER XXII
So, in drawing a bow at a venture, I had hit the mark.
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