The joint was not quite ready, Edwards explained to me, drawing me aside a minute; would old Jim mind? The idea of old Jim minding being quite absurd, we decided on having a cooked joint a quarter of an hour hence, rather than a semi-raw one now; and we told Jim our decision. It seemed to suit him exactly, as he had had tea late. There never was such an unruffled fellow as he; had we wanted to begin before the time appointed, he would have been ravenous. So he continued the description of his adventures on leave. Meanwhile I rescued _Comic Cuts_ from the hands of Paul, and despatched them, duly initialled, by the trusty Davies to “C” Company. Just as I had done so the sergeant-major appeared at the door. “You know the time we move off to-morrow?” I said. Yes, he had known that long before I did, by means of the regimental sergeant-major and the orderly sergeant. “Fall in at 8.15,” I said. “Everything the same as usual. All the officers’ servants, and Watson, are to fall in with the company; this straggling in independently, before or after the company, will stop once and for all.” Lewis’ face, as he laid the soup-plates, turned half a degree redder than usual. “There’s nothing more?” I said. “No, that’s all, sir.” The sergeant-major drained off his whiskey with a dash of Perrier, and prepared to go. Now was the psychological moment when one learnt any news there was to learn about the battalion. “No news, I suppose?” I asked. “The fellows are still talking about this ‘rest,’ sir. No news about that, I suppose?” said the sergeant-major. “Only that it’s slightly overdue,” I answered, with a laugh. “What do you think, Jim? Any likelihood of this three weeks’ rest coming off?” “Oh, yes; I should think so,” said the quartermaster. “Any time next year.” “Good night, sir,” said Sergeant-Major Brown, with a grin. “Good night, Sergeant-Major,” came in a chorus as he disappeared into the garden. “Soup’s ready, sir,” said Lewis. And we sat down to dine. The extraordinary thing about having Jim Potter in to dinner was that an extra elaborate menu was always provided, and yet old Jim himself always ate less than anyone else; still, he did his share nobly with the whiskey, so that made up for it, I suppose. To-night Edwards planned “sausages and mash” as an entrée; but, whether through superior knowledge or a mere misunderstanding, the sausages arrived seated carefully on the top of the round of beef, like _marrons-glacés_ stuck on an iced cake. As the dish was placed, amid howls of execration, on the table, one of the unsteadier sausages staggered and fell with a splash into the gravy, much to everyone’s delight; Edwards, wiping the gravy spots off his best tunic, seemed the only member of the party who did not greet with approbation this novel dish.