The trouble arose over his batman, Harry Hobbs.
Harry was a man who, in his youthful days, had been a diligent patron of the London music halls, and in consequence had become himself an amateur entertainer of very considerable ability.

His sailor's hornpipes, Irish jigs, his old English North-country ballads and his coster songs were an unending joy to his comrades.

Their gratitude and admiration took forms that proved poor Harry's undoing, and besides some of them took an unholy joy in sending the chaplain's batman to his officer incapable of service.
Barry's indignation and grief were beyond words.

He dealt faithfully with the erring Hobbs, as his minister, as his officer, as chaplain, but the downward drag of his environment proved too great for his batman's powers of resistance.

Once and again Barry sought the aid of the sergeant major to rescue Harry from his downward course, but the old sergeant major was unimpressed with the account of Harry's lapses.
"Is your batman unfit for duty, sir ?" he inquired.
"Yes, he is, often," said Barry indignantly.
"Did you report him, sir ?" inquired the sergeant major.
"No, I did not." "Then, sir, I am afraid that until you do your duty I can do nothing," answered the sergeant major, with suave respect.
"If you did your duty," Barry was moved to say, "then Hobbs would not need to be reported.