‘Hullo, Dick, you’ve got the battalion. Or maybe it’s a staff billet. You’ll be a blighted brass-hat, coming it heavy over the hard-working regimental office . And to think of the language you’ve wasted on brass-hats in your time!’
I sat and thought for a bit, for the name ‘Bullivant’ carried me back eighteen months to the hot summer before the war. I had not seen the man since, though I had read about him in the papers For more than a year I had been a busy battalion officer, with no other thought than to hammer a lot of raw stuff into good soldiers. I had succeeded pretty well, and there was no prouder man on earth than Richard Hannay when he took his Lennox Highlanders over the parapets on that glorious and bloody 25th day of September. Loos was no picnic, and we had had some ugly bits of scrapping before that, but the worst bit of the campaign I had seen was a tea-party to the show I had been in with Bullivant before the war started. [Major Hannay's narrative of this affair has been published under the title of The Thirty-nine Steps.]
The sight of his name on a telegram form seemed to change all my outlook on life. I had been hoping for the command of the battalion, and looking forward to being in at the finish with Brother Boche. But this message jerked my thoughts on to a new road. There might be other things in the war than straightforward fighting Why on earth should the Foreign Office want to see an obscure Major of the New Army, and want to see him in double quick time?
‘I’m going up to town by the ten train,’ I announced; ‘I’ll be back in time for dinner.’
‘Try my tailor,’ said Sandy. ‘He’s got a very nice taste in red tabs. You can use my name.’
An idea struck me. ‘You’re pretty well all right now. If I wire for you, will you pack your own kit and mine and join me?’

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