In the crowded Pullman car of the last Sunday night train back to Shoreham, Peter fell in with his Colonel. The diffident, kindly man—usually shy with his subalterns—offered a whisky-and-soda; grew a little talkative.

“I wish I were out in France,” he confided. “I’d rather be a Major out there than a Colonel in England any day. But the powers-that-be won’t hear of it. It looks like a long war, Jameson—a really long war. But of course it might end tomorrow—and then one would never have had one’s chance.”

“Do you think we shall be going out soon, sir?” Peter asked the stock-question from pure habit.

Colonel Andrews began to talk the other side of war, the difficulties of finding seasoned wood for rifle-stocks, the lack of dyes for khaki. His outlook, if limited, was—except on the question of machine-guns—extraordinarily sound: and Peter, when their homeward way separated in the rain at the cross-roads by the cycle-shop, found difficulty in realizing how so decent a chap could have let himself be misled into taking Locksley-Jones for Adjutant....

Turning into the Camp, Peter could see immediately that something must be wrong. Although it was nearly one o’clock in the morning, lights glowed in most of the officers’ tents. Across the blurr and rain drizzle of the parade-ground, under the acetylene flares by the latrine-buckets, figures moved, lanterns swayed. He heard voices calling.

“What’s up?” he asked the sentry.

“Trouble over in the lines, I’m afraid, sir. They do say as ’ow ‘D’ Company’s flooded out altogether.”

Peter stumbled across the darkness towards his own lines; nearly collided with a dripping figure in gum-boots. A torch flashed in his face.

“That you, P.J.?” said Bromley’s voice. “Been out on the tiles, and come to have a look round at the picnic?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing much. Only most of the Camp flooded; about twenty tents blown down; and half the men soaked to the skin. ‘A’ and ‘D’ have got it worst. Hark at Mosely’s voice.”

They heard it, raised like a foghorn above the din: “Now, then, you chaps, form up, will you? Never mind your blasted blankets.”

“Come and have a look-see. It’s worth while. Reminds me of a stampede in South Africa.” Peter had never known Bromley speak so crisply.

They pashed back to the lines; found confusion indescribable. Mosely had by now got his company into some sort of order; they stood there, dripping and shivering, faces white under the big flare, unlaced boots flopping as they stamped on the lime-washed slime: but Simcox’s lines looked as if a tornado had struck them. Tents lay in writhing coils; from under them, men crawled, mud-soaked and cursing; the stockbroker, in gum-boots and pyjamas, a “British Warm” coat to complete the costume, alternately damned their eyes and adjured them to “buck up”; his subalterns scuttered about, still half asleep, laughing and quite useless. “C” were already away, making for the railway-station. Peter heard Bareton’s high voice shepherding them, “Don’t straggle there. Keep together,” and a man in the rear four grousing, “Bloomin’ fine weather for ducks....”

“But what’s happened to us?” he asked Bromley—for “B” Company’s tents stood dark and deserted.

Bromley chuckled: “Oh, they don’t catch me that way, P.J. Our men are all tucked up comfy round a big stove in the Schoolhouse. I saw this coming at about half-past eight: so I sent Gladeney to find a good billet; routed the chaps out; posted a sentry to tell the leave-men where to make for.... And we slacked our tent-ropes when the rain started.”

“Why didn’t you warn the others?”

“I did; but they wouldn’t listen. I’m a quiet old stick, I am.” He chuckled again, with all the “old soldier’s” delight at having scored off his colleagues.

Far away, on the high road, they heard the roar of a car; saw the glare of a single headlight; watched it nosing for the Camp gates.

“That’s our friend the Adjutant,” commented Bromley, “back from one of his little jaunts to Brighton.”

The engine stopped; the headlight was cut off. A minute or two later, Locksley-Jones’ bow-legged figure came waddling towards them. Bromley flashed the torch in his face; and they saw his puffy eyes flinch as the light struck them.

“Who are you?” he called.

“Friend.” Bromley, a little above his usual grave self, had gone clean back to South African days. The amenities of home service were, for the moment, completely in eclipse.

“Oh, it’s you, Bromley, is it? What’s all this skylarking?” blustered Locksley.

The situation was curtly explained to him; and he turned for advice—as weak men will in a crisis—to the stronger character.

“What do you think I ought to do?”

“Do!” said Bromley contemptuously. “Do? Well, if I were you, I should go to bed. This is a man’s job.”

“He’ll never forgive you for that,” said Peter, snuggling gratefully between his Jaeger blankets.

“My part!” chuckled Bromley across the darkness of the tent.