Four subalterns sat over the remnants of their dinner in the dark narrow dining-room of the “Lyndon Hotel.” Outside, rain fell—gently but audibly—on the stone pavement. Said Archie Hutchinson, a whippet of a fellow, buff in colour, thin-shanked, brown-eyed, “horse” written all over him: “There’s a devilish good little bay come in with that last draft: but I don’t fancy any of you lads could ride him.” “Bags I for Beer Battery”—(Gunners usually adopt the code terms “Ack,” “Beer” and “Don” instead of A. B. C.)—“if it’s a bay,” said Pettigrew, blue eyes twinkling in brick-red cheeks. “Do you think he’d carry P.J.?” “Just about.” Hutchinson concentrated on the problem. “P.J. might be able to manage him. P.J. isn’t a bad horseman. Of course, he hasn’t got very good hands. . . .” “Oh, we all know you’re the only chap in the Brigade with good hands,” put in Archdale—a fair-haired boy of eighteen—maliciously. “You shut up, Brat. _You_ can’t ride anyway. . . .” “Who is P.J.?” asked Merrilees, a solemn young man of twenty-six, with eyes like an owl and the shoulders of a student, who had been transferred from Colonel Brasenose’s Brigade (the 3rd Southdown) that afternoon. “Do you mean to say,” chuckled Pettigrew, “that you’ve never heard of our Mr. Jameson? Our Mr. Jameson,” he cocked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth—a very tolerable imitation of Peter’s mannerism—“the Captain Kettle of the 4th Brigade. Our Mr. Jameson is some gunner, I can assure you.” “Really.” Merrilees had no sense of humour. “Also,” went on Pettigrew, “our Mr. Jameson has a car—some car! And a wife—_some_ wife.” “Brat” Archdale, who had developed a violent attack of calf-love for Patricia, blushed violently. “I like P.J.,” remarked Hutchinson, pouring himself a second glass of port. “So do I,” said Pettigrew, “but he’s a quaint bird.” “Who’s a quaint bird?” Purves poked a wonderfully brushed brown head round the door; drew his long body after it; sat down to the table. “Our Mr. Jameson.” “Undoubtedly,” pronounced the Oxford man in his best Balliol drawl, “undoubtedly. As you say, Pettigrew, a quaint bird. But efficient. Very efficient. His language, on the other hand, reminds me very strongly of our friend the Weasel’s. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does talk. . . . You should have heard him in riding-school this afternoon. Sergeant Murgatroyd positively blushed.” “Sergeant Murgatroyd, like all these old Army fellows, pulls his horses about too much. No hands!” The speaker, of course, was Hutchinson. There came a smart rap on the door; and a crisp voice asked, “May I come in?” Everybody rose. “Rather, sir. Have a glass of port, won’t you, sir? Take a chair, sir. Won’t you take off your things, sir?” Colonel Stark, very slim and red-haired, looking—except for the lines about his eyes—almost a boy himself, accepted the many invitations. Purves filled a glass for him, and they all sat down again.