A new brigadier had just been appointed to command the Middlesex Fusiliers Brigade. He was an upstanding young giant of thirty, and the main tenets of his creed were fitness and efficiency. In pursuit of the latter he organized strenuous sham fights over miles of country, and he urged upon his colonels that only by encouraging athletic contests on a hitherto unheard of scale could they hope to attain the former. Alf and Bill were no athletes, but they continued to play football with more vigor than skill until their platoon was knocked out of the battalion competition. They bore their defeat with stoicism, hoping that they would now be allowed to assume the much more accustomed and congenial rôle of spectators. Instead of this they found themselves (to their inexpressible indignation) called upon to sustain the battalion's honor in cross-country runs under the eye of that speechless but efficient officer Lieutenant Donaldson. In the evenings, however, they were free to extract what amusement they could out of life. The pierrot troupe, without which no division at the front considered itself complete, played to packed houses every other night in the Y.M.C.A.; while a cinematograph show had been rigged up in a barn. Each day, also, a limited number of passes to Amiens entitled such as were favored of Fortune to a blissful day's taste of civilization. To the officers, however, it seemed sometimes incredible that any of the men could patronize these delights at all. "I believe," said Richards to Allen one evening, "that every man in this company must write to every relation, friend, acquaintance or business connection he has in Blighty seven times in the week, just to spite us!" The company letters had just come in to be censored. Donaldson had gone to a Sports Committee meeting, and Shaw, as mess president, was in Amiens restocking the larder. "Lord, what a pile!" said Allen, sitting down at the table and beginning his task. "It's lucky I've no letters of my own to write--or only a note." He gave a sigh; the man at the front who has nobody in England to write to is not to be envied. "I have, though," said Captain Richards. "My wife'll be thinking I'm dead if I don't write her a proper letter soon." He also took a handful of letters and set to work. "May I come in?" said a voice at the door. "Or are you too busy?" "Come in, of course, major." The second-in-command entered, glanced round and took in the situation. "Don't let me interrupt you," he said politely. "I haven't come to see _you_ at all, so don't flatter yourselves. I wanted to see Denis's _Sketch_ and _Tatler_, that's all." "On my bed, sir," said Allen. "Thanks." There was unbroken silence for some minutes. Then the major cast _The Tatler_ from him with an exclamation of disgust.