“Look here, P.J.”—the soldier voice dropped a tone—“between you and me, this show’s going to be another wash-out. Our Division and the Northdown ought to have been up last night. That’s why we were hustled out of England. They’re _supposed_ to be billeted on the line Beuvry-Noeux-les-Mines. As it is, our Infantry haven’t got as far as Béthune yet.” “But, good God, sir—are these five Divisions going into action without any infantry Reserves at all?” “They are, P.J. And you may well say ‘Good God.’ It isn’t our General’s fault either. I met his G.S.O.[9] One—your pal Starcross—in his car this afternoon.” “And when _will_ the rest of our Division get here, sir?” “They’re coming up by forced marches. Starcross reckons they’ll reach Béthune at daybreak. . . .” “Just when we push off.” “Exactly. And it’s six miles as the crow flies from Béthune to our present front line. . . .” The two men stared first at each other; then at the map. Even to the amateur, the fault was obvious: “What will happen, sir?” he asked. “Chaos,” said Stark succinctly. “And now you’d better be going to bed. You’ve got to be on that Fosse early tomorrow. Telephone down anything you see. I’ll be at the instrument myself. And mind you, P.J., what I’ve said tonight is between the two of us. . . .” ----- [9] Senior Staff officer of a division. § 3 “Four o’clock, sir. Time to get up.” Peter awoke from undisturbed slumbers; saw Driver Garton standing, candle in one hand, steaming mug in the other, by his bedside. He pulled himself up from his valise; drank tea gratefully. In the opposite corner of the room, tossing uneasily in his sleep, lay Purves. Outside, all was still—not a gun firing. Peter dressed quickly, slipped sling of gas-helmet over his head; went downstairs. The Mess-room, still shuttered, smelt dankly of stale smoke and human sleep. In one corner, telephone-receiver strapped round his ears, lay Driver Nicholson. “Don’t wake him,” whispered Peter, as his servant deposited breakfast on the table. “Go round to the dug-out, and tell them that Seabright’s to be ready in ten minutes. I shall want my field-glasses, my map-case, my compass, and a message-book.” “And your cigar-case, sir?” smiled the young Yorkshireman. For answer, Peter tapped on his tunic-pocket; smiled back. Master and man knew each other fairly well. The Adjutant disposed of two poached eggs, some greasy bacon, three slices of buttered toast and a large mug of black tea; lit a cigar; sauntered out of the house. A light appeared at one of the upper windows; some one called out: “That you, Jameson?” “Yes, sir. I tried not to wake you.” “You don’t catch weasels asleep. Mind you let me have plenty of information. And watch the signal station at G nine ack two seven—on the embankment.” “I’ve got a note of that, sir.” “Right. I’m going back to bed for an hour.”