When Alf reached the 5th Battalion once more, he found it transformed. All signs of trench life had disappeared, and the men were recovering their swing and swagger. True, they looked a little harassed, but that was only natural seeing that they were in the middle of one of the periods of strenuous activity humorously known to those in authority as "rest."

His mates accepted Alf's reappearance among them without surprise—almost without comment. The fact that he had been in hospital suffering from a hitherto unknown disease did not excite them at all. Such men as did mention the matter took it for granted that he had had some new form of "trench fever." (Every malady developed at the front which is not immediately recognizable is disposed of by popular rumor under this convenient heading.)

This particular "rest" was expected to last still another fortnight when Higgins reported. The first week was to be devoted to a stiff training program, while the second was to embrace an equally energetic period of athletic competitions and games. Within an hour of his arrival the disgusted private found himself swooped upon by various enthusiasts and engaged to go into strict training at once, with a view to representing the platoon at football and the company in a cross-country race the following week. Practice games and trial runs were arranged to dovetail into each other with devilish ingenuity, until Alf began to consider the advisability of rubbing this mysterious button of his and obtaining a relapse.

He was unimaginative, and the vast possibilities latent in the magic button had not even begun to unfold themselves before his mind. One of his chief characteristics was a reluctance to mix himself up in matters he did not understand. He felt that in meddling twice already with supernatural and probably diabolical powers he had been very lucky to get off scot free; and the mere idea of ever encountering that fearsome being again filled him with apprehension. He avoided touching the mysterious button at all, either for cleaning or any other purpose.

But this state of things could not last. Lieutenant Allen was no martinet, but it was not many days before he stopped before Alf on parade and surveyed him with disfavor.

"This won't do, Higgins," he said. "Your brasswork is a disgrace. Look at that button! You will clean that up the moment you get off parade this morning, and I'll have a look at it this afternoon. See?"

"Yessir!" said Higgins dutifully. But he did not see in the least what was to be done. He could not leave his button untouched after what the officer had said, and he did not dare to clean it. In his efforts to solve this problem, he went through his drill movements with an air of preoccupation which excited Sergeant Lees to the verge of apoplexy. But he had his reward in an idea of—for him—surpassing brilliance.

Army custom decrees that when a soldier in uniform goes into mourning, he shall proclaim the fact to the world by covering the second button of his tunic with crepe, or some other black material. Obviously, then, Higgins' easiest way out of his dilemma was to kill some non-existent relative. His difficulty thus settled, he began to apply his mind to the business in hand just in time to save the sergeant's sanity.

The parade finished, Higgins set out to find C.Q.M.S. Piper. That important personage was conferring deeply with the company commander on some subject connected with the issue of rum, and Higgins had to wait; as bad luck would have it, by the time the conference was ended Sergeant-Major French had come up and was standing within easy earshot. Alf tried to pitch his voice so that the sergeant-major should not overhear him, and only succeeded in defeating his own end by becoming completely inaudible.

"Quarters," he said, "can you give me a ee oh ack uff?"

"Now then, my lad!" roared Piper, in a voice which commanded the instant attention of everybody in the hut, "don't whisper sweet nothings to me. Spit it out! What d'yer want? Piece o' what?"

Amid general interest the defeated strategist repeated his request.

"Bit of black stuff, Quarters."

"Bit o' black stuff? What for?"

"To go into mourning. My uncle's dead."

"Ho!" intervened C.S.M. French, suddenly waking to the full significance of Higgins' request. "Yer uncle's dead, is 'e? 'Ow d'yer know that?"

"I 'ad a letter this mornin', major."

"Ho! Well now, that's funny; because there 'asn't been no bloomin' mail in since Friday. An' as for mournin', your bloomin' button's gone into mournin' already, without needin' no black stuff. I never saw nothing like it! Now, look 'ere, 'Iggins, I 'eard Mr. Allen tickin' you off about it, this mornin', and it looks to me as if you're tryin' on a bit of a game. Yer uncle may be dead or 'e may not, but before the quartermaster gives yer a bit o' black, you've gotter show me that button so bright that I can see me blinkin' face in it. Now, get a move on!"

There was no help for it. The button had to be cleaned, this once at any rate. Afterwards Higgins could mourn his uncle without ceasing, and spirits from the vasty deep need no longer form an essential part of his matutinal preparations for parade.

As soon as dinners had been dished out, Higgins put on his kit, took his rifle, and slipped away to a quiet spot where a small mound screened him from observation from the camp, though it did not prevent him from keeping a look-out. There was still a full hour before parade. He sat down, and after a moment or two spent in summoning his courage he produced his button-stick and began to polish his button. He did not even look up when a sepulchral voice gave evidence that the dreaded Being had appeared.

"What wouldst thou have? I am ready to serve thee as thy slave, and the slave of any that have that Button in their possession; I, and the other slaves of the Button."

Alf continued polishing for dear life. After a moment's pause the voice spoke again.

"Great Master," it said. "Behold, thy slave is present."

But the great Master, perspiring freely with terror, averted his head and polished on. He had some wild hope that the spirit might realize that the summons he had obeyed was involuntary and, so to speak, unofficial, and would go away. The spirit, on the other hand, apparently took his master's behavior as being simply an exhibition of despotism; this was quite according to Oriental tradition, and greatly impressed him, so that when he spoke a third time his voice was humble and servile to a degree.

"O Master, Lord of Power," he said, "since thou dost not deign to acknowledge the presence of thy slave, but dost continue the summons whereby thy slave came hither, is it thy will that the other slaves of the Button, who are seven thousand in number, should be brought before thee?"

It is doubtful whether Higgins fully comprehended this rather involved sentence; but he understood enough to realize that unless he made up his mind to talk with this being he was threatened with the appearance of seven thousand other devils, quite possibly worse than the first. He dropped his button-stick hastily. "No," he said anxiously; "you'll do."

He turned and faced his slave and was astonished to find that his fear had passed. The mysterious being was much more terrible in anticipation than in reality; and the servility of his speech and bearing had unmistakably shown that he regarded Alf with respect almost amounting to reverence. Alf, his breast swelling with a new and very pleasant sense of self-importance, decided to take this opportunity of coming to some kind of understanding with his new follower.

"Look 'ere, chum," he said affably, "you an' me's got to 'ave a little talk. Now, just tell me, 'ow do I come to be your master?"

"Lord, I am chief of the slaves of the Button that was aforetime the Lamp. Whosoever may be Lord of the Button, him do I serve and perform all his will; I, and the other slaves of the Button."

"Lumme!" commented Alf, much impressed. "An' where was yer last place?"

"Master?" said the spirit, uncomprehending.

"'Oo didst you—thou—serve before you come to me?" interpreted the Master.

"The great prince Aladdin."

"Don't know 'im. Prince 'oo?"

"Aladdin."

"What—the pantomime feller? Lor', you must be gettin' on in years! Well, now, did this chap give yer a reference?"

The spirit looked puzzled, and Alf decided that in Aladdin's time servants could not have had characters. He continued his catechism.

"An' what's yer name, mate?"

"Abdulkindeelilajeeb was I aforetime, O Master, but now I am called Abdulzirrilajeeb."

"Gorblimey," said Alf blankly. "You don't expect me to do that when I speaks to yer, I 'ope!" Then after a pause he added, "I shall call yer Eustace."

The djinn looked pleased.

"In truth, O possessor of wisdom, it is a lordly name."

"'Tis well," replied the possessor of wisdom with a melodramatic wave of the hand. "Now, tell me. Yer always poppin' up an' askin' for orders—what is it you want to do? What's yer partickler line?"

"My Lord hath but to command," said the newly-christened Eustace with superb simplicity.

"Garn, what a whopper!" Alf snorted incredulously. He had an ingrained dislike of "swank" in any form; and he looked about him at once, seeking some impossible task with which he might upset this complacent creature's vanity.

His imagination failed utterly to respond to the sudden strain placed upon it. His eye wandered round the unedifying landscape and found no source of inspiration. In despair he glanced up at the skies, and there he found the idea he sought.

High in the air above the British lines—so high that they were only just visible—were two aeroplanes. That they were Boche and Briton, engaged in a duel, was plain; but which was which it was impossible to make out. No doubt an expert would have known at once by a dozen signs; but Alf's data for distinguishing friend from foe in the air began and ended with the official markings—the tricolor rings of the Allies or the German black cross painted on the wings of the machines. When these signs were not visible he worked, as did most of his mates, on the rough principle that if an aeroplane dropped bombs on you it was certainly a Boche, while if it refrained it was probably British.

He directed the djinn's attention aloft.

"Now then," he said in triumphant tones. "See them two airyplanes up there? Well, if yer so bloomin' clever, 'op up and bring down the Boche one to me 'ere."

Eustace disappeared immediately, and Alf, incredulous though he was that anything out of the ordinary was going to happen, gazed up at the two tiny machines, still diving and circling in their attempts to out-maneuver one another.

The duel was, however, nearing an end. As Alf gazed, one of the two suddenly turned tail and fled. The other gave chase, and seemed on the very point of victory, when suddenly the pursuing plane seemed to check in mid-air and began to descend.

Even to Alf's untutored eye there was something uncanny in that descent. The machine neither nosedived nor came down in the usual graceful spirals. Instead it sank slowly and very steadily straight downwards, in defiance of all known laws of aeronautics, directly towards the spot where Alf was standing.

Alf, petrified with astonishment, stood staring at the machine as it grew larger and more distinct. It was all true, then! The djinn had, it seemed, all the powers that he claimed. In a few moments Private Higgins would be in sole possession of a complete German aeroplane. For the first time in his career, military glory was in his grasp. He had had no thought, when he had given his command to Eustace, of anything but the difficulty of the task; but now he had a sudden joyous vision of the kudos he would gain when he should march the crew of his approaching captive into the company lines at the point of his bayonet.

He unslung his rifle, loaded it and fixed the bayonet. Then, assuming the "On Guard" position, he looked up once more at the machine, now only a few hundred feet above him; and he gave a gasp of horror.

On the underside of the wings, now plain to the view, were painted the familiar rings of red, white and blue. Eustace, even less skilled than his master, had brought down the wrong machine. Instead of saving a British airman from destruction Alf had only deprived him of a well-earned victory at the moment of triumph. The German, rejoicing at his incredible escape and marveling, no doubt, at his opponent's inexplicable collapse, was now out of sight and in safety above his own lines; while the Briton was just dropping ignominiously to earth, helpless in the grip of a muddle-headed spirit out of an Oriental fairy tale.

Higgins stood rooted to the spot as the 'plane came to earth beside him; out of it climbed two R.F.C. officers, both puzzled and exceedingly angry. They subjected their machine to an exhaustive examination and then stared at each other blankly.

"Not a thing wrong, Tony. It's uncanny!"

"Uncanny!" The young pilot was almost weeping with mortification. "To have that chap von Hoffmeister in my hands—the chap who's been the thorn in our flesh this last month—and then be done in by—by a bally miracle. It's damnable!"

Alf's knees trembled beneath him. He came guiltily to attention, wondering if the airmen could suspect his complicity in the affair.

The pilot's feelings suddenly boiled over again.

"My God!" he said thickly, "I'd like to kill somebody for this!"

Unconsciously he fixed Alf with a baleful glare.

"I'm—I'm sorry, sir," quavered Private Higgins, losing his head completely.

The observer laughed mirthlessly.

"Well," he said to Alf. "It wasn't your fault, anyway. Come on, Tony, let's see if we can't find a mess somewhere. You'll feel better after a whisky. Not ..." he concluded, exploding in his turn, "that I don't think it's the rottenest bit of luck that ever happened."

"All right," said the pilot. "Here, you'll stand by the machine, will you? I'll tell 'em in the camp that I ordered you to."

"Yessir!" said Alf, saluting; and he thankfully watched them go towards the camp.

As soon as they were out of sight, Alf rubbed his button. The djinn appeared, wearing a self-satisfied smirk at the striking proof of his powers his new master had just received.

"What wouldst thou have? I am ready to obey thee as thy...."

"Cut out the song an' dance, yer blinkin' fool," said Alf fiercely. "See what you gone an' bin an' done. This 'ere's a British plane—savvy? I told yer to bring a Boche one—them what 'as the black crosses. I b'lieve yer a bally spy, I do. 'Ere, git out o' me sight!"

The djinn vanished in silence. The instant he was gone Alf began to regret the lengths to which his tongue had led him. How had he dared to speak so to a creature possessing unlimited powers? He began to feel cold with apprehension. What would happen next?

At this point he saw a tremendous commotion in the camp. Men poured out of the huts and stared skywards, gesticulating and shouting. Alf looked upwards and saw the cause of their excitement. Fully a dozen German aeroplanes were converging on Alf from different quarters of the sky, each one helpless in the grip of the same power that had brought the British machine to earth.

It was Eustace's wholesale Oriental method of making reparation. One by one the machines came to earth, until all twelve were arranged in a neat row beside the original victim. The dazed German crews scrambled out, looking for somebody to whom to surrender; but first, as was their duty, they set fire to their machines. There was nobody to prevent them, for though several hundred British soldiers were on the way at the double, not one was on the spot.

Alf had fled in panic; he skulked in retirement until the excitement had died down; his one desire was not to be connected in anybody's mind with the extraordinary and inexplicable events of that afternoon.

When the German prisoners had been cleared away, and the normal routine had been restored, he returned to camp and displayed his button to C.S.M. French. Having received a grudging assent from that worthy, he drew his "bit o' black" from the quartermaster-sergeant, and draped it over his talisman. As he put the last stitch in place he made a mental resolve that it would be long before he would meddle again with a magic productive of such uncomfortable adventures.