"And mind, I expect to see some of this sent home when I censor the letters. I wouldn't give you so much all at once if we were in a place where we could get beer----" "Aren't we, though," put in Shaw, pointing to a drop of amber liquid in the tankard he held. "Smell that!" Donaldson sniffed. "Beer, and good beer at that," he pronounced. He looked enquiringly at the two Tommies. Alf gave himself up for lost, but not so Bill. "Yes, sir," he said easily. "I noticed that meself." "I dare say," answered Donaldson grimly. "The point is, can you explain it?" Bill's face grew preternaturally innocent. "I expect, sir, Fritz left the mugs behind 'im in the Big Frost, sir, an' the drops got froze in. Prob'ly thawed again with the warmth of our 'ands." Donaldson eyed the propounder of this ingenious theory gravely. "Probably," he agreed. And relapsing into his customary taciturnity, he strode off down the trench with his two mugs, little Shaw trotting behind, still lost in wonder at the sudden discovery of an artistic side in old Don. "'E don't believe yer," said Alf apprehensively. "'Course not. 'E's no fool, isn't Don, for all 'e looks 'arf asleep. But 'e's a sport, an' 'e likes a good lie. You'll see, 'e'll say no more about it. Let's 'ave another." Alf, whose throat was parched with all he had been through, this time let no consideration for the feelings of Eustace deter him. CHAPTER VI ISOBEL'S "DREAM" For the next day or two Alf found life very hard. Bill's appetite for beer increased by geometrical progression; and Eustace's possible indignation at being constantly summoned merely to supply Private Grant with large bitters filled Alf with the liveliest apprehension. He felt that Bill--who, under the influence of unlimited liquor, was losing his moral sense--was not playing the game. He even descended to the level of intimidating Higgins, when he declared himself unprepared to risk the djinn's displeasure any longer, by the use of threats. "Stop me beer, will yer?" said Grant. "Very well, then. We'll just see what the R.S.M. 'as to say about yer goin's on. 'E won't 'arf tell yer orf, I don't think!" The regimental sergeant-major is _ex officio_ the most terrible individual of a battalion from the point of view of the private soldier. True, the colonel is greater than he, in that from that officer the R.S.M. takes his orders; but the colonel--so far as Higgins and his peers were concerned--was a mere abstraction. The R.S.M. overshadowed him much as, in the eyes of unimaginative heathens, the priest overshadows the deity whose minister he is.