“Rather.” Peabody threw cap and cane on the bare floor; drew himself up a chair; lit a cigarette. “I thought you’d like to hear about Locksley—beg his pardon, Locksley-Jones, _Mister_ Locksley-Jones. No longer ‘Captain and Adjutant,’ you will observe.” Bromley, just back from the Larkhill training course, lounged through the door in time to hear part of the last sentence. “What’s that about Locksley?” “Got the boot,” said Peabody laconically. “How?” asked the two Gunners simultaneously. “Nobody quite knows. One day he was in the Orderly Room—and the next, he just wasn’t. Of course, there have been heaps of rumours. . . . The C.O. gave us one of his ‘pi-jaws’ yesterday—you know the way the old man lisps when he lectures—all about ‘the honour of the Regiment.’ I think he knows pretty well what Locksley has been doing, because he said—rather decent of him I thought: ‘Of course I understand some of you have had a good deal to put up with’ . . . I believe,” Peabody shook his young head, “that there must have been something wrong with the Battalion accounts.” “Then he ought to have been court-martialled!” Bromley nodded confirmation of Peter’s epitaph on Locksley’s career. “Come up to the Mess and have a drink, kid,” he added to the Infantryman. The three walked out; up the steep dry slope of turf to the Mess Hut. Various officers were disposed about the big deal-boarded room: Lodden, in front of the cold stove, was cursing to Billy Williams about the _Lusitania_—“Oh I dunno,” purred the big Major, “What do you expect of _Germans_?” “Brat” Archdale and “Monkey face” lounged in two huge arm-chairs, sipping manfully at their vermouths: Merrilees, in another chair, studied Italy’s declaration of war in the _Daily Chronicle_ with wrinkled brows. From the officers’ huts across the grass, came the alternating buzz of two telephone transmitters—Conway and Purves talking to each other in Morse. “I say,” announced Peabody shyly, when the three had settled down to their drinks, “what I came over for was this. Slattery—you remember him—he’s our new Adj.—wants you two to come over and dine at our Mess tomorrow. Now that Locksley’s gone. . . .” He let the prepared speech trail off into silence. “But what about the C.O.?” asked Bromley. “I think”—Peabody very nearly blushed—“it was the C.O. who suggested it to Slattery.” * * * * * Next evening when they rode over—the Chalkshire Mess was a bare six hundred yards away, but as Gunners it became the pair to arrive mounted. Private Haddock, in full khaki and equipment, stood sentry in the roadway; banged hand against rifle-stock, and beamed ecstatically as they slid from their horses. Arkwright, three stars on his arm, schoolmaster stoop more pronounced than ever, met them outside the hut; led them in as an Ambassador conducting distinguished foreigners.