“I dunno will he. I asked the postman, an’ he said daddy couldn’t post ’em.” “That wasn’t nice of the postman,” said Jim. “What would you do with them if you got them?” “Frow fings at ’em,” said Timsy, valiantly. “Good man!” said Jim. “We’ll have you in the trenches before the war’s over, I expect. Another cake, old chap?” Timsy accepted the cake graciously, digging his white teeth into it with appreciation. “I’m after having me tea,” he confided. “An’ Bridget said there wasn’t any cake. But there’s lots.” His eye swept the table. “There is, indeed,” said Jim, guiltily. “Just you have as much as you feel like.” “Are you a soldier?” demanded Timsy, his eyes on Jim’s uniform. The boy nodded. “Like me daddy?” “Not as good, I expect,” said Jim. “Me daddy’s the finest soldier ever went out of Ireland—old Nanny told me he was. And she said if once he met that old Kaiser he’d be sorry he ever got borned. An’ he would, too, if me daddy cot him. An he’s a sergeant, ’cause he’s got free stripes on his arm. Why hasn’t you got any?” “I don’t know as much as your daddy,” said Jim, probably with perfect truth. “When I get bigger they may give me some.” “You’re bigger than me daddy, now,” said Timsy, surveying him. “Only you haven’t got any whiskers. I ’spect you have to have whiskers before you get free stripes.” “I expect so,” Jim agreed. “I’ll grow some the first minute I get time. What have you done with your legs, Timsy?” “Scratched ’em, I ’spect,” said Timsy, indifferently, casting a fleeting glance at his bare brown legs, which bore many marks of warfare. “They’s bwambles in the wood. Why is your buttons dif-runt to me daddy’s?” “What are your daddy’s like?” Timsy fished laboriously in the pocket of his shirt. “I got one here,” he said. “It came uncottoned, an’ fell off, an’ daddy said I could have it. Look—it’s nicer than yours.” “Of course it is—isn’t your daddy a sergeant?” said Jim, gravely. Timsy looked up sharply, and was seized with compunction. “Don’t you mind,” he said, hastily putting away his cherished button, lest dangling it before the eyes of his new friend should excite vain longings in his soul. He slipped a grimy little paw into Jim’s. “’Twill not be long at all before they make a sergeant of you. Can you hurry up an’ grow whiskers?” “I’ll do my best,” returned Jim, laughing. “You’re a good old sportsman, Timsy. Have another cake.” Timsy’s head was bent over the dish in the tremendous effort of selection, when a slight commotion was heard in the hall. “I was without in the scullery,” said a high-pitched voice, “and I after giving him his tea. ‘Let you sit quiet there till I have a minute to put a decent appearance on you,’ says I. ‘’Tis not in them ould rags you’d be having the genthry see you,’ I says. With that I wint back, an’ the kitchen was as bare as the palm of me hand. I’ve called him till me throat’s cracking——”