"
"We want all the warm clothing we can get," said McKay. "The men are
being frozen to death."
"I tell you what: there were five cases of sheepskin-jackets I brought
up--_greggos_, I think they call them--what those Tartar chaps wear in
Bulgaria.'"
"The very thing! Let's have them, uncle."
"I wish you could, lad; but they are landed and gone into the store."
"The commissariat store? I'll go after them in the morning."
"It'll trouble you to get them. He is a hard nut, that commissariat
officer, as you'll see."
Mr. Dawber, the gentleman in question, was a middle-aged officer of
long standing, who had been brought up in the strictest notions of
professional routine. He had regulations on the brain. He was a slave
to red tape, and was prepared to die rather than diverge from the
narrow grooves in which he had been trained.
The store over which he presided was in a state of indescribable
chaos. It could not be arranged as he had seen stores all his life, so
he did nothing to it at all.
When McKay arrived early next day, Mr. Dawber was being interviewed
by a doctor from a hospital-ship. The discussion had already grown
rather serious.
"I tell you my patients are dying of cold," said the doctor. "I must
have the stoves."
"It is quite impossible," replied Mr.
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