They waited half-an-hour; heard the shriek of the Klaxons die away to silence, the roar of the guns to an intermittent crackling. “I think we might go on now,” said Peter. “It doesn’t seem to have hurt the horses, thank goodness.” Nevertheless, since the wind still blew fairly from the north-east, he kept ears and nostrils a-cock as they made gingerly for Headquarters. “That you, Jameson?” called Stark’s voice from the lighted doorway of the villa. “Yes, sir.”—Peter dismounted—“Is Captain Horrocks up, sir?” “Up? Everybody’s up, except our ruddy Belgian landlord. He and his wife have got their respirators on, their heads under the bed clothes, and the fear of God in ’em. Why do you want Horrocks?” The Weasel looked a quaint figure. His red hair was still towzled with sleep. He wore a “British Warm” coat over silk pyjamas, striped white and crimson, rather short in the leg, and heelless slippers of red morocco-leather. From his bare neck depended a vast respirator (one of the earliest experiments in that direction), whose square box—thick tube hanging down like a diminutive elephant-trunk—bobbed at his chest whenever he spoke. “I’m afraid the horses got a whiff or two of that damn stuff, sir,” explained Peter. “Oh, and thank you very much for sending me my helmet.” “Some sense in Corps Orders occasionally,” said the Weasel grimly. “I told Mr. Black to pick you out a new one. Hope it was all right.” Peter, not wishing to make trouble, kept silence. Horrocks, also in pyjamas, appeared clutching a whisky-and-soda; fingered his moustaches professionally; gave it as his opinion that gas, except in very large quantities, had no effect on horses. Peter dismissed Jelks; and the three passed into the Mess-Room. Dr. Carson, in mauve and yellow pyjamas, gas-helmet perched drunkenly on his white hair, was just opening a potted tongue. Purves, fully dressed except for his tie, and very _affairé_, stood tracing imaginary lines on the large-scale map above the mantelpiece. Morency, barefoot in unlaced breeches and striped vest, held a huge bottle of Perrier in one hand, a tin of sardines in the other. Came a rap at the panelled door, a breathless signaller: “Ack Battery report infantry asking for retaliation, sorr. They have begun firing, sorr. And they want to know if Gas Alert has been cancelled, sorr. I told them it had not been cancelled, sorr. . . .” “Better go and see what they want, P.J.,” Stark nodded to his Adjutant. “Doesn’t look as though we shall get much sleep tonight.” And as a matter of cold fact, it was 5:0 A. M. on the morning of his return from leave to that “cushy” spot Neuve Eglise, before Peter at last crawled between his Jaeger blankets. “Wonder if Pat’s awake,” he thought. . . . § 2 “Can’t we come too, Mummy?” asked Evelyn. “You might take us?” pleaded Primula.