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By Root 2412 0

of feeling that had brought him into the army in the first instance. Such sentiments were hard to unravel. They were perhaps no more tangled than the rest of the elements that made up Stringham’s life – or anybody else’s life when closely examined. Not only had he disregarded loopholes which invited avoidance of the Services – health, and, at that period, age too – but, in face of much apparent discouragement from the recruiting authorities, had shown uncharacteristic persistence to get where he was. One aspect of this determination to carry through the project of joining the army was no doubt an attempt to rescue a self-respect badly battered during the years with Miss Weedon; however much she might also have accomplished in setting Stringham on his feet. An innate restlessness certainly played a part too; taste for change, even for adventure of a sort; all perhaps shading off into a vague romantic patriotism that especially allured by its own ironic connotations, its very lack, so to speak, of what might be called contemporary intellectual prestige.

“Awfully chic to be killed,” he had said.

Death was a prize, at least on the face of it, that war always offered. Lovell’s case had demonstrated how the unexpected could happen within a few hours to those who deplored a sedentary job. Thinking over Stringham’s more immediate situation, it seemed likely that, hearing of a vacancy in the ranks of the Mobile Laundry, he had decided on impulse to explore a new, comparatively exotic field of army life in his self-imposed military pilgrimage. Bithel could even have marked down Stringham as a man likely to do credit to the unit he commanded. That, I decided, was even more probable. These speculations had taken place during one of the Mess’s long silences, less nerve-racking than those at the general’s table, but also, in most respects, even more dreary. Biggs suddenly, unexpectedly, returned to the subject.

“Glad that bugger’s gone,” he said. “Got me down. It’s a fact he did. I’ve got worries enough as it is, without having him about the place.”

He spoke as if it were indeed a great relief to him. I had to admit to myself that Stringham’s physical removal was a great relief to me too. This sense of deliverance, of moral alleviation, was at the same time tempered with more than a trace of guilt, because, so far as potential improvement in his state was in question, Stringham had left F Mess without the smallest assistance from myself. I dispelled such twinges of conscience by reflecting that the Mobile Laundry, at least while Bithel remained in command, led for the moment a raggle-taggle gipsy life, offering, at least on the face of it, a less thankless daily prospect than being a Mess waiter. If absorbed into the Divisional Concert Party, he might even bring off a vocalist’s stage debut, something he used to talk of on the strength of having been briefly in the choir at school. In short, the problem seemed to me to resolve itself – after an honourable, even quixotic gesture on Stringham’s part – to finding the least uncongenial niche available in the circumstances. That supposition was entirely my own. It was probably far removed from Stringham’s personal ambitions, if these were at all formulated.

“What’s on your mind, Biggy?” said Soper. “You’re not yourself to-day.”

“Oh, stuff it up,” said Biggs, “I’ve got a pile of trouble. Those lawyers are going to skin me.”

When I saw Widmerpool that afternoon I spoke about Stringham going to the Mobile Laundry.

“It was my idea to send him there.”

“A very good one.”

“It seemed the solution.”

Widmerpool did not elaborate what he had done. I was surprised, rather impressed, by the speed with which he had taken action, especially after earlier remarks about leaving Stringham where he was. It looked as if Widmerpool had thought things over and decided there was something to be said for trying to make Stringham’s existence more agreeable, however contrary that might be to a rule of life that taught disregard for the individual. I felt I had for once misjudged Widmerpool, too readily accepted