Cockerell nodded. The stout Major began to beat upon the tailboard of the lorry with his stick. "Sergeant Smurthwaite!" he shouted. There came a muffled grunt from the recesses of the lorry. Then a round and ruddy face rose like a harvest moon above the tailboard, and a stertorous voice replied respectfully-- "Sir?" "Let down this tailboard; load this officer's platoon into the lorry; issue them with a Maconochie and a tot of rum apiece; and don't forget to put Smee under arrest for dangerous driving when we get back to billets." "Very good, sir." Ten minutes later the survivors of Number Nine Platoon, soaked to the skin, dazed, slightly incredulous, but at peace with all the world, reclined close-packed upon the floor of the swaying lorry. Each man held an open tin of Mr. Maconochie's admirable ration between his knees. Perfect silence reigned: a pleasant aroma of rum mellowed the already vitiated atmosphere. In front, beside the chastened Mr. Smee, sat the Major and Master Cockerell. The latter had just partaken of his share of refreshment, and was now endeavouring, with lifeless fingers, to light a cigarette. The Major scrutinised his guest intently. Then he stripped off his British Warm coat--incidentally revealing the fact that he wore upon his tunic the ribbons of both South African Medals and the Distinguished Service Order--and threw it round Cockerell's shoulders. "I'm sorry, boy!" he said. "I never noticed. You are chilled to the bone. Button this round you." Cockerell made a feeble protest, but was cut short. "Nonsense! There's no sense in taking risks after you've done your job." Cockerell assented, a little sleepily. His allowance of rum was bringing its usual vulgar but comforting influence to bear upon an exhausted system. "I see you have been wounded, sir," he observed, noting with a little surprise two gold stripes upon his host's left sleeve--the sleeve of a "non-combatant." "Yes," said the Major. "I got the first one at Le Gateau. He was only a little fellow; but the second, which arrived at the Second Show at Ypres, gave me such a stiff leg that I am only an old crock now. I was second-in-command of an Infantry Battalion in those days. In these, I am only a peripatetic Lipton. However, I am lucky to be here at all: I've had twenty-seven years' service. How old are you?" "Twenty," replied Cockerell. He was too tired to feel as ashamed as he usually did at having to confess to the tenderness of his years. The Major nodded thoughtfully. "Yes," he said; "I judged that would be about the figure. My son would have been twenty this month, only--he was at Neuve Chapelle. He was very like you in appearance--very. His mother would have been interested to meet you. You might as well take a nap for half an hour. I have two more calls to make, and we shan't get home till nearly seven. Lean on me, old man. I'll see you don't tumble overboard ..."