Four subalterns sat over the remnants of their dinner in the dark narrow dining-room of the “Lyndon Hotel.” Outside, rain fell—gently but audibly—on the stone pavement.

Said Archie Hutchinson, a whippet of a fellow, buff in colour, thin-shanked, brown-eyed, “horse” written all over him: “There’s a devilish good little bay come in with that last draft: but I don’t fancy any of you lads could ride him.”

“Bags I for Beer Battery”—(Gunners usually adopt the code terms “Ack,” “Beer” and “Don” instead of A. B. C.)—“if it’s a bay,” said Pettigrew, blue eyes twinkling in brick-red cheeks. “Do you think he’d carry P.J.?”

“Just about.” Hutchinson concentrated on the problem. “P.J. might be able to manage him. P.J. isn’t a bad horseman. Of course, he hasn’t got very good hands....”

“Oh, we all know you’re the only chap in the Brigade with good hands,” put in Archdale—a fair-haired boy of eighteen—maliciously.

“You shut up, Brat. You can’t ride anyway....”

“Who is P.J.?” asked Merrilees, a solemn young man of twenty-six, with eyes like an owl and the shoulders of a student, who had been transferred from Colonel Brasenose’s Brigade (the 3rd Southdown) that afternoon.

“Do you mean to say,” chuckled Pettigrew, “that you’ve never heard of our Mr. Jameson? Our Mr. Jameson,” he cocked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth—a very tolerable imitation of Peter’s mannerism—“the Captain Kettle of the 4th Brigade. Our Mr. Jameson is some gunner, I can assure you.”

“Really.” Merrilees had no sense of humour.

“Also,” went on Pettigrew, “our Mr. Jameson has a car—some car! And a wife—some wife.”

“Brat” Archdale, who had developed a violent attack of calf-love for Patricia, blushed violently.

“I like P.J.,” remarked Hutchinson, pouring himself a second glass of port.

“So do I,” said Pettigrew, “but he’s a quaint bird.”

“Who’s a quaint bird?” Purves poked a wonderfully brushed brown head round the door; drew his long body after it; sat down to the table.

“Our Mr. Jameson.”

“Undoubtedly,” pronounced the Oxford man in his best Balliol drawl, “undoubtedly. As you say, Pettigrew, a quaint bird. But efficient. Very efficient. His language, on the other hand, reminds me very strongly of our friend the Weasel’s. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does talk.... You should have heard him in riding-school this afternoon. Sergeant Murgatroyd positively blushed.”

“Sergeant Murgatroyd, like all these old Army fellows, pulls his horses about too much. No hands!” The speaker, of course, was Hutchinson.

There came a smart rap on the door; and a crisp voice asked, “May I come in?” Everybody rose.

“Rather, sir. Have a glass of port, won’t you, sir? Take a chair, sir. Won’t you take off your things, sir?”

Colonel Stark, very slim and red-haired, looking—except for the lines about his eyes—almost a boy himself, accepted the many invitations. Purves filled a glass for him, and they all sat down again.

“Where’s that fellow Straker?” asked the Weasel. “In his room? I wonder if one of you chaps would mind fetching him for me. Conway anywhere about? Out, is he?” A chuckle. “At the Palladium, I suppose....”

The Palladium is Brighton’s most palatial picture-house. Its attraction for the petticoat-loving Conway was well-known. Every one laughed: and the Colonel beamed round the table.

“We shall have to get Conway married, sir,” remarked Purves: and went off to find Charlie Straker.

“I suppose you youngsters know we’re moving into camp next week.”

“Yes, sir,” from Pettigrew. “Shoreham, Captain Torrington said.”

“Correct, Pettigrew. And then I shall start gingering you all up a bit. Especially ‘B’ Battery.” The Colonel turned to Merrilees. “You’re going to ‘C,’ young man. Did Colonel Brasenose teach you how to ride?”

“I—I think so, sir,” said Merrilees shyly.

“We never ‘think’ in the 4th Brigade, do we Hutchinson?” This, a reminder of the horsy one’s last attempt at manoeuvring a battery, drew a twinkle from Pettigrew.

“No, sir.”

Charlie Straker arrived: tall; clean-shaven, curly-headed, with big hands and a pronounced stutter. A promoted ranker, once in Stark’s own battery, he had recently come home to take up his commission.

“G-good evening, sir.”

“Evening, Straker,”—Stark had come to the Mess with one of his usual definite purposes in mind—“I’m going to take you round to the Jamesons’. There’s an old friend of yours with them, and very anxious to see you.”

“Who, sir?”

“Jacky Baynet”—a less tactful man might have said “Captain Baynet”—“he’s home on leave. You remember him, of course.”

“R-rather, sir. He recommended me for my first stripe. I—I’ll go and get my things on at once, sir.”

“If you young subalterns only knew a quarter as much as Charlie Straker,” remarked the Weasel, as the ex-ranker clattered upstairs, “there’d be second stars on a good many sleeves....”

“Damn good chap, the C.O.,” said Hutchinson, when the four were alone again. “Pretty good seat on a horse too.”

The remainder agreed.