Major Fox-Goodwin’s promotion to the Command of the Chalkshires newly-formed twelfth Battalion, and the transfer-application of his two senior subalterns, gave Locksley, who accepted this answer to his _pourparlers_ in silence, his chance. Bromley and Peter, Peabody and Arkwright, found themselves swamped out with full lieutenants, all eager for promotion to Captaincies. It was already understood among the men that “Mr. ’Arold ’ad ’ad enough, of that there Locksley; and ‘P.J.’ ’e’d thrown his ’and in too.” At the slightest opening, the Cockneys would have shown on which side their sympathies lay. But no such opening was provided. The two friends carried on loyally, helping their not-too-competent seniors towards efficiency. And always, the Company improved. By now, it had khaki uniforms (though not its equipment): and a long rifle, servicable though not “Service Pattern,” for every man. It had, too, a band of its own—three flutes and two drums—to which it marched merrily along the sea-front. Bromley, less externally occupied than Peter, grew very grave those days. It weighed on him to give up this weapon he had forged, to feel that other hands would carry it into action. To Bromley—not realizing his friend’s reticence in troubles—P.J. seemed positively heartless. He cursed about Locksley every now and then; avoided him at Mess or on the streets; drank rather more than usual; but gave no other sign of being harassed either about the loss of “B” Company or the loss of Nirvana. It was P.J. who suggested applying to Torrington for some “books about this new gunnery game,” P.J. who insisted that they must study them together, “so as not to look bally idiots when our transfer does come through.” And study they did—four hours an evening—for the whole two months. It will be observed that the Weasel proved himself no mean judge of a man’s keenness when he picked out these two over a magnum of champagne! § 3 About this time, there arrived at the Stazione Centrale of Milan—one cold and foggy north Italian morning—an emaciated, unshaven priest, dressed in dusty _soutane_ and a black shovel hat; a priest whose hands were dusty and bleeding, whose eyes shone glassy with sleeplessness, whose feet—as he limped down from the crowded third-class carriage—were shod in cracked boots, soles worn to the welt, uppers caked and terraced with layer on layer of drying mud. Humbly, but in excellent Italian, the priest enquired of a surly _facchino_ his way to the Via Rasori; and having been told in guttural Milanese to make for the _Galleria_, to take the “_Via Dant’_,” and then the “_Via Boccacc’_,” limped out into the fog. Had that fog been less dense, the _facchino_ might have noticed a hole in the priest’s shovel hat, a hole possibly made for ventilation purposes—for it had been drilled clean through the black furry felt, in at one side and out the other.