A week later, Bareton _and_ Fanshawe transferred to the Reserve Battalion. (Fanshawe died at Festhubert: Bareton still lives—all that the Hun prison-camps have left of him). But matters did not end there. Locksley-Jones, confirmed in his position, sent for Peter privately. Peter, who was shooting on the miniature range at the time, finished his score with a “highest possible”; looked about for Bromley; couldn’t find him; strolled very slowly to the Orderly Room. Locksley, alone, went on writing for a clear minute. Then he said, “Oh, is that you, Jameson? I just wanted to have a private talk with you. You know, you’re a very clever fellow, Jameson. But you’re not clever enough to tackle _me_.” Peter deliberately took off his cap, and sat down—at the Colonel’s table. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I must take your word for that. Go on.” Our Mr. Jameson was not an easy person to “discipline”—especially if one happened to have put oneself in the wrong by making the talk unofficial. “Can’t we pull together, P.J.?” went on Locksley. “You know I can do you much more good than your pal Bromley. There’s your second star, for instance. . . .” Peter couldn’t help admiring the audacity of the fellow. He wanted to consolidate his position; didn’t care how, so long as he achieved his purpose. “And supposing I were to tell the C.O. what you’ve just suggested?” “He wouldn’t believe you—any more than he believed Bareton. The old man’s as weak as water. You know that as well as I do.” Peter controlled the impulse to hit Locksley in the face, and asked: “Is that all?” “Oh, of course”—Locksley fell into the trap—“when we come to alloting the Captaincies. Let’s see”—he referred to a list—“you haven’t got any Captains in ‘B’ yet. If the Major goes. . . .” This was news indeed. Now, Peter saw the plan whole. With complacent Company-Commanders and a weak Colonel, Locksley’s position would be unique. “_Is_ the Major going?” he asked—playing for time. “Between you and me and the gatepost”—Locksley winked—“the W.O. has just asked if he is ‘considered fit to command a battalion.’” Thought Peter: “What a swine! Still—if it weren’t for Bromley, I’d accept. I could run the show as well as most people.” Said 2nd Lieutenant Peter Jameson: “There’s a good deal in what you say. But I must have a little time to make up my mind. By the way, you don’t object to my taking a day or so extra at Christmas.” “Not a bit, my dear fellow, not a bit.” * * * * * Meanwhile, men died in Flanders. PART NINE TWO EXCUSES FOR FAILURE § 1