She began to fork the hay down with surprising vigor for one so frail. Bill lay close as a maggot in a nut; but unfortunately, at her sixth prod, the old lady dug her weapon into one of the tenderest parts of his undraped anatomy, and Bill sprang up with an eldritch scream. Naked as he was, and festooned and bristling with hay, he was a startling apparition. The old Frenchwoman gave forth a yell as if all the devils in hell were after her, and clambered down the ladder with the speed of a cat. By some miracle she preserved her footing till she was halfway down the ladder; but then her feet slipped and she shot ignominiously on to her own hay. Bill thought for a moment that she had hurt herself; but a second later he heard her wooden shoes on the cobbles outside as she took to her heels and ran for her life. Bill, shivering, returned gloomily to his hay. The fat was in the fire now, without a doubt. Even if she did not inform the colonel, the old lady was sure to alarm the villagers; and what they might do to him Bill hardly dared imagine. He lay shivering with cold and fright. After a time he seemed to hear stealthy footsteps. He determined that his only chance was to give himself up and throw himself on the mercy of his captors. He stood up, and shook himself free of the hay. A voice below spoke--Alf's voice. "Bill!" it said. * * * * * * * Half an hour later Bill stood before Sergeant Lees. "Ho," said that autocrat. "'Ere you are. Bilked yer bath, you 'ave, so I 'ear, an' missed the Captain's inspection; an' the British soldier's first dooty is to be clean." "I got a better bath in the village, sergeant. Didn't think you'd mind," said Bill desperately. "Ho, did yer? Don't seem to 'ave done yer much good. 'Ave yer seen yerself?" The sergeant handed him a shaving-mirror. Grant studied his features in silence. His adventures in the hay had completely destroyed the effects of his bath. His face was streaked and mottled with black dust till he looked like a dissipated nigger. "No, my lad," said the sergeant grimly. "That yarn's like you--it don't wash. You'll report to Sergeant Oliver to-morrer an' act as bath-orderly for the rest o' the week." CHAPTER VIII BLIGHTY FOR TWO Grant's appointment to the menial position of bath-orderly plunged him into a state of savage gloom. His duties were arduous and his hours long; and as he spent even his free time in morose silence, he soon made Alf as miserable as himself. Gradually the week wore away until at last the sentence was served, and Bill was once more a free man. But his punishment seemed to have soured his whole outlook on life; even now he continued sullenly aloof till at last even the easy-going Alf felt himself constrained to remonstrate. "Look 'ere, Bill," he said. "What's up?" "Fed up!" growled Bill.