Francis’ letter reached his cousin on the morning Peter and Bromley saw their transfer gazetted in the Morning Post. The answer to it, a packet containing two letters and a postcard addressed “Poste Restante, St. Omer,” was in Peter’s pocket as they stood in the Chalkshires’ Orderly Room, bidding Colonel Andrews good-bye.

“I’m very sorry you’re both leaving me,” said the Colonel. “Very sorry indeed.”

“We’re sorry to be going, sir,” from Bromley.

“I’m sorry we’re leaving, sir,” from Peter.

They shook hands with the diffident kindly man, saluted; clanked out, booted and spurred—the Gunner grenades already on their lapels; ran into Locksley-Jones.

“Hallo, you chaps,” he stuttered. “Just off. What?”

“Yes,” said Bromley grimly. “We’re going to a show where they’ve got a soldier for their Adjutant. It will be quite a change....”

But when—(having said good-bye to Mr. Smith, the Regimental Sergeant Major, to Gladeney and Sergeant Atkins and Corporal Pearson, to Peabody and Arkwright and Mackenzie, Mosely and Simcox and half a hundred others who came crowding round the bar at “the Feathers,” to their two servants who stood watching the train as it slid out of Worthing Station towards Brighton)—the two friends at last settled themselves in the corner of a first-class carriage, they both grew very silent—thinking how others would lead into action those hard-drinking, hard-swearing Cockneys who sang, as they marched:

“It’s a long vai, ter get ter Berlin,

Ter pai back all we owe.”