As we passed out through the porter's
lodge Parsons sat at his table, imperturbable and austere, his eagle
eyes flashing from beneath his bushy brows and his venerable
beard sweeping his breast. At that moment Biffin, overwrought with
excitement, forgot himself.
"Cheerio, Parsons, old cracker," he shouted wildly; "how's the weather
suit your whiskers?"
Then, realising the enormity of his act, he turned suddenly pale,
dashed out into the road and dived panic-stricken into the waiting
taxi. We made good our escape.
* * * * *
Those seven stars represent the War. I take a childlike pleasure
in dismissing Armageddon in this brusque fashion. If you have had
anything at all to do with it you will understand.
Having been demobilised at a relatively early date, out of respect for
our pivotal intellects, Biffin and I were bound for Cambridge, to take
up the threads of learning where WILHELM had snapped them some years
previously. Both of us have changed a little. Biffin has been burnt
brown by the suns of Egypt, while I wear a small souvenir of Flanders
on my upper lip.
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