“Where’s that fellow Straker?” asked the Weasel. “In his room? I wonder if one of you chaps would mind fetching him for me. Conway anywhere about? Out, is he?” A chuckle. “At the Palladium, I suppose. . . .” The Palladium is Brighton’s most palatial picture-house. Its attraction for the petticoat-loving Conway was well-known. Every one laughed: and the Colonel beamed round the table. “We shall have to get Conway married, sir,” remarked Purves: and went off to find Charlie Straker. “I suppose you youngsters know we’re moving into camp next week.” “Yes, sir,” from Pettigrew. “Shoreham, Captain Torrington said.” “Correct, Pettigrew. And then I shall start gingering you all up a bit. Especially ‘B’ Battery.” The Colonel turned to Merrilees. “You’re going to ‘C,’ young man. Did Colonel Brasenose teach you how to ride?” “I—I think so, sir,” said Merrilees shyly. “We never ‘think’ in the 4th Brigade, do we Hutchinson?” This, a reminder of the horsy one’s last attempt at manoeuvring a battery, drew a twinkle from Pettigrew. “No, sir.” Charlie Straker arrived: tall; clean-shaven, curly-headed, with big hands and a pronounced stutter. A promoted ranker, once in Stark’s own battery, he had recently come home to take up his commission. “G-good evening, sir.” “Evening, Straker,”—Stark had come to the Mess with one of his usual definite purposes in mind—“I’m going to take you round to the Jamesons’. There’s an old friend of yours with them, and very anxious to see you.” “Who, sir?” “Jacky Baynet”—a less tactful man might have said “Captain Baynet”—“he’s home on leave. You remember him, of course.” “R-rather, sir. He recommended me for my first stripe. I—I’ll go and get my things on at once, sir.” “If you young subalterns only knew a quarter as much as Charlie Straker,” remarked the Weasel, as the ex-ranker clattered upstairs, “there’d be second stars on a good many sleeves. . . .” “Damn good chap, the C.O.,” said Hutchinson, when the four were alone again. “Pretty good seat on a horse too.” The remainder agreed. § 3 “Who’s my best subaltern, Straker?” asked the Colonel as they strode through the darkness. The other hesitated. “C-Conway’s very good, sir.” “And what about Bromley? He’s seen service, you know. . . .” Stark stood still for a moment. . . . “I wish to goodness you’d learn to read a map, Straker. Can’t put you in for promotion till you can.” “I—I know. I’m rotten at it, sir.” They walked on. “Jameson’s c-coming along very well with his gun-drill, sir”—Charlie Straker, by virtue of knowledge, acted as unofficial instructor to the Brigade—“and he’s r-rather good with horses.”