Within its walls
junior subalterns, now, alas, a rapidly diminishing species, dally
with insidious ices until their immature moustaches are pendulous with
lemon-flavoured icicles and their hair is whitened with sugared rime.
There it was that Frederick discovered Percival feebly and mournfully
pecking at a vanilla ice.
"Greeting, old Spartan," said he. "Training for the Murman coast?"
"Would that I were!" replied Percival. "I'm refrigerating my sorrows.
I've tried to drown them, but they float; so I'm by way of freezing them
under."
"Poor Perce!" murmured Frederick. "I suppose it's Cox again?"
"_Au contraire_, I'm _his_ sorrow. My present trouble is that I've got
to find a wife."
"Nothin' easier, old thing. Your photo in the illustrated papers, with
appropriate letterpress--"
"You misunderstand me," interrupted Percival. "It's someone else's wife
I've got to find. _Ecoutez_. Teddy Roker has got permission for his wife
to visit him out here. He's expecting her by this afternoon's boat and
has got a billet fixed up all right, but he's been suddenly rushed away
on a court-martial case, so he's asked me to meet her, and I've never
seen her before.
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