Already, it was dusk—a chill dry night, moonless. Under the shadows of the trees in front of them, tents glowed—warm orange cones in the darkness. Figures passed them as they walked across the dry grass; touched caps awkwardly; muttered “Good-night, sir.”

Bromley made way towards a light that shone out like an eye from the open doorway of the first tent. Approaching, Peter saw, under it, a head in a khaki cap, bowed over an open book. The head lifted to the sound of their footsteps; the body underneath jerked itself to attention.

“Good-evening, sir,” said Company-Sergeant-Major Gladeney—a fierce little alert-eyed man with the waxed moustaches of the old-time non-com.

“Evening, Colour Sergeant,” Bromley acknowledged the salute. “May we come in?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

They stepped over the tent-fly; and were made welcome on two packing-cases.

“This is Mr. Jameson, one of our new officers, Colour Sergeant”—it must be explained that Bromley had not yet accustomed himself to the new title of “Company-Sergeant-Major”—“do you think you can find him a good servant?”

“I think so, sir. There’s a man here, name of Priestley, who was with us in South Africa. He ought to take a stripe but he won’t....”

“Knows the game too well, I suppose,” suggested Bromley.

“That’s about the size of things, sir. He’s out now; but if your batman could look after Mr. Jameson for tonight, I’ll send him over first thing in the morning.”

“Very well, Colour Sergeant. How are the boys?”

“All right, sir. They’re shaking down pretty well.” He relaxed a little, put a match to his pipe. “Wonderful thing to me, sir, how they put up with things. Those boots you bought in Brighton were a God-send, sir. They may be able to march now. Before, half of them couldn’t do more than hobble. And tomorrow we’ll be serving out the new uniforms.”

“What, khaki?” interrupted Peter.

“No, sir. Workhouse stuff, sir—at least that’s what they look like to me. Blue slops and forage-caps for the most part. And a few of our old militia uniforms.”

“Not the old scarlet-runners.” This from Bromley.

“The identical, sir, with the old white facings. Don’t know what they’ll look like when we get ’em dressed up, sir. But it’ll be better than their civvies anyway.” He patted his own be-ribboned khaki tunic, pulled hard at his pipe.

“Any need for me to go round the lines, Colour Sergeant?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Mr. Fanshawe is Orderly Officer tonight.”

Bromley got up; said “Thank you, Colour Sergeant. I think that will be all then”; acknowledged Gladeney’s salute, and stepped back into the darkness. Peter followed.

Walking back, Bromley linked arms; said, “Look here, old chap, you’d better come into my tent tonight. I’m a quiet old stick—but you’ll find the kids a bit trying.”