Colonel Andrews, a diffident, not unkindly man of the pre-Boer-War school, expressionless of face, and stocky of figure, stood talking to his Adjutant in the recently-occupied camp on the flat fields near Shoreham Railway Station. Rattled a taxi down the road; stopped at the gate.

“Another officer, I suppose,” said the Colonel. “Might be a ‘regular’ by his old valise. You’d better go and look after him. I’m off home for tea. Send up to the house if you want me for anything.” He strode back across the parade-ground, through the lines of tents; and disappeared.

Peter acknowledged the salute of a sentry, still in civilian clothes except for a swagger-cane; paid his taxi; gave instructions for his kit to be dumped at the guard-tent till further orders.

“That’s the Adjutant, Sir,” said the sentry, pointing to a bow-legged figure in khaki making his way across the parade-ground towards them. Peter—saluting although the newcomer only wore the two stars of a full lieutenant,—saw a pair of puffy eyes under a thatch of sandy hair, two ears rather full in the lobe, a goodish nose, and a set of bad teeth between thin lips. “And what can I do for you?” said the other, carelessly acknowledging the compliment.

“Are you the Adjutant of the 10th Chalkshires?”

“I’m Lieutenant Locksley-Jones, at present acting in that capacity.”

“The deuce you are,” thought Peter; then aloud, “My name’s Jameson. I’ve been ordered by the War Office to join this battalion.”

“I don’t know anything about you. The W.O. haven’t sent us any instructions.” Locksley-Jones fingered scraggy moustache doubtfully; scrutinized the telegram Peter produced.

“All right,” he said. “You’ll have to share a tent with the other fellows. Meanwhile you’d better come and have some tea. Those are the officers’ lines,” he pointed to a row of tents by the road, “the men are over there,” his stick switched across the parade-ground, “and we mess in this big marquee.”

“I don’t wonder Harry Preston whistled,” thought Peter, as they picked their way across the tent-ropes to Mess; passed through the deserted “ante-room” where a red stove glowed welcome, into the main part of the marquee.

Scattered about in groups at the trestle-tables under the swinging oil-lamps, little knots of officers sat eating and drinking. Civilian waiters bustled about, serving them.

“Hello, Adjutant,” exclaimed a tall thin Major, twinkling face red-veined with port and the open air. “What’s this? Another budding Napoleon?”

Locksley-Jones introduced Peter deferentially; the Major shook hands; asked the usual “Done any soldiering before?”; was told “Yes, Sir. Eton Volunteers”; apologized for talking shop in Mess; and buried his nose in a large cup of boiling tea.

“Peter Jameson?” he said, emerging. “Let me think. Name sounds familiar somehow. You’re not Tessa Bradley’s son, by any chance, are you? She married a man named Jameson.”

“My father, Sir,” said Peter.

“Good Gad,” said Major Fox-Goodwin, “why I was at their wedding. Thirty-five years ago or I’m a Dutchman. Fancy, little Tessa having a grown-up son. I say, Jones,—beg pardon, Locksley-Jones....”

“Yes, Major.” The Adjutant was visibly irritated; firstly by his superior’s reception of the newcomer, secondly at the mistake (which he knew intentional) in his own name.

“Young Jameson will be posted to my company. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Major.”

“And if he knows his drills, you’re not to put him ‘on the square.’ See?”

“Quite, Major.” The acting adjutant finished his tea hurriedly; went out.

“Between you and me and the gatepost,” whispered Fox-Goodwin, “Andrews will make the mistake of his life if he keeps that young bounder in the Orderly Room much longer.”

Peter nodded comprehension; and the old man—he was, as he informed his new subaltern, “rising sixty-five”—began to reminisce. He had soldiered under “Chips” Bradley in the late seventies, or was it the early eighties? “Damned if he knew, but Chips Bradley had the best eye for a pretty gal ... and as for his two daughters, Tessa and Dolores: bit Jewish-looking though ... they got that from their mother of course.” He rambled on for nearly ten minutes; then called across the room. “Here, Bromley, come and be introduced to our latest.”

Harold Bromley lounged over with the unmistakable gait of the ex-Cavalryman. A tall unsmiling fellow, heavy-moustached, light-blue of eye and auburn-haired, who wore the two South African ribbons, yellow-red-black green-white, across his rather crumpled tunic.

“Leave you two youngsters alone,” announced the Major, introductions over; and wiping his gray moustache with a brown bandanna handkerchief, withdrew to the ante-room.

“Marvellous old chap,” commented Bromley. He spoke rather slowly but without any drawl. “Always reminds me of a character in Thackeray. Do you read Thackeray?”

“I’m not much of a bookworm,” said Peter; and waited for more information. He had knocked about the world enough to learn the advantage of listening much and talking little on first acquaintance. But his liking for the grave man—whom in spite of the single star on the shoulders of his high-collared tunic, he judged to be nearly forty—was instinctive.

“I’m glad you’re coming to ‘B’ Company,” went on Bromley. “The Major’s a great sport—but he doesn’t know a word of his drill; and now that he’s acting second-in-command, most of the work falls on myself and the Sergeant-Major. I suppose you know enough to come on parade right away, without bothering about recruit-drill.”

“Oh, I think so,” said Peter; and proffered his inevitable cigar-case.

Bromley accepted a cigar; and the two sat talking for a few minutes. Characteristically, neither spoke of his life before joining the army; their conversation confined itself to generalities.

“Let’s go into the ante-room,” suggested Bromley.

They found two comfortable basket-chairs near the stove. Locksley-Jones, returned from the Orderly-room, had established himself at one of the baize-covered tables, was tearing the wrapper from a fresh pack of cards. “Care for a game, Jameson?” he called across the room.

Bromley looked sideways at his new friend (the instinctive liking had been mutual); saw his eyelashes just flicker; heard him say, “No, thanks, not tonight.” The ante-room began to fill up; grew loud with talk, hazy with tobacco-smoke. The Adjutant’s rubber soon filled. Bromley, in a discreet undertone, began pointing out various worthies.

There was Captain Mosely, a great ox of a fellow, ex-Regular newly-rejoined, who sat by himself in a far corner, writing letters—the flimsy chair creaking each time he dived for ink (“O. C. ‘D’ Company,” whispered Bromley): and Simcox who commanded “A”—a fat stockbroker of forty, looking curiously out of his element among a group of very junior subalterns. There was Fanshawe (“son of Judge Fanshawe”) beetle-browed, black-locked, long of leg and short of temper, discussing Military Law with Bareton, a tall clean-shaven young lawyer, light-haired, stubborn in temperament, a puritan fanatic with a tendency to dreaming, (“they’re running ‘C’ between ’em, rather efficient fellows,” confided Bromley): and Peabody, a brown-faced kid of eighteen, looking the child in his converted cadet tunic; Arkwright, tall and lank with the unmistakable stoop of the junior master in an English Public School; Mackenzie, a round-faced Scotch boy who had been studying for “the Ministry” when war broke out—and many others. A curious team to be driven by a Colonel of limited outlook, who had made his first mistake when he decided to live out of Mess, his second when he confided the acting-Adjutancy to the astute but unscrupulous Locksley-Jones.

“Care to come round the lines?” asked Bromley. “I usually go about now.”

They found their caps and canes, sauntered out.