Day waned; died. Bombardier Michael came in; cleared away the tea-mugs. The telephone on the shelf buzzed impatiently. Purves went to it. “It’s Torrington,” he announced, “and he wants to know if they’re to go on firing at the Pope’s Nose.” “Tell him, yes,” said Stark, “till further orders.” “Are we going to move out, sir?” asked Purves, coming back to the table. “My servant says he’s had orders to pack up my kit.” “He has. My orders.” The tone of the Weasel’s voice stifled discussion. Again, the telephone buzzed. “You answer it, Jameson.” Peter picked up the receiver; heard the usual: “Brigade Major Seventh Don Ack wishes to speak to the Adjutant.” “You’re through, sir.” Then the usual quiet voice, “Oh, is that you, Jameson? About tonight, we want you to fire shrapnel on those cross-roads. Same as. . . . Here, half-a-minute. . . . Hang on, will you? . . .” A long pause. “Is your Colonel there? Do you mind asking him to speak?” “They want you, sir,” said Peter across the room. “I guessed as much.” Stark came over; took the instrument. The four men heard him say: “It can’t be done under four hours. . . .” Pause. “Yes, just like them, isn’t it? . . . Le Rutoire Farm. . . . All right. . . . You might send those orders along, will you? . . . And I’m one gun short.” Then he put the receiver back on the shelf; turned round; and remarked with a peculiar smile: “Well, gentlemen, we’re for it this time!” * * * * * § 2 Peter Jameson was not a man who gave either friendship or admiration lightly. His feelings for Colonel Stark had hitherto been tolerant rather than friendly, critical rather than admiring. The little red man had stood to his Adjutant for a type: the “Regular soldier”—a person of limited outlook, good at his job (and why not, after twenty years of it?), irascible, rather inclined to bother himself over-much with detail, taking the simple business of commanding an Artillery Brigade as seriously as if it had been the management of a complicated commercial concern. . . . But on the night of September the 25th, even that stickler for organization and efficiency, P.J., had to acknowledge himself the Weasel’s inferior.