"I’ll no’ forget you, sir," concluded M’Nab with a lump in his throat, as he saluted and marched away. "Here’s a letter from Private Smith’s mother, sir. She says he hasn’t sent any money for a month, sir, and when he was on pass he got drunk, smashed up the crockery, and pawned the old woman’s bedclothes." "Call him up." "What’s this you have been doing?" "Nothing, sir," was the insolent reply. "Do you call insulting and robbing your mother, nothing? You’re a low rascal. Now, look here, I’m sending your mother two pounds to-day to keep her going. But I’m going to stop it out of your pay. Charity would be wasted on a man like you. And if I were not an officer I would give you a sound thrashing." "I’m sorry, sir,—I’ll no’ dae it again." "You had better not—fall out." "Private O’Toole has lost his eye, sir," remarked the colour-sergeant. "What!" exclaimed the amazed captain. "His eye, sir." "Is he in hospital?" "No, sir." "Why not? He must be in agony. How did it happen?" "It’s a false one, sir," chirped in O’Toole with a grin. "Ah!" laughed the captain, "I never knew that before." "I used tae hae a guid wan, sir, but I lost it. The wife gied me yin oot o’ a doll’s e’e. It didnae look weel, but it wis guid enough." "How did you lose that one?" "I left it on the bed tae watch ma hauf loaf. When I came back it wis awa’." "Well, I’ll buy you a new one. Still, I don’t see how you can shoot at the Germans." "If I cannae shoot, sir, I can feel them wi’ the bayonet. Nelson had only wan e’e, sir." "All right, O’Toole." "Thank you, sir." "What’s next, colour-sergeant?" "The meat is short. All the men are complaining, but the cook says the weight’s there." "Umph! Is the cook married?" "No, sir; but I believe he is well in with a widow in the town." "Well, colour-sergeant, you know what widows are, and you know what cooks are. Put a policeman on to watch him. You’ll probably find him carrying all the choice steaks out at night. If you nab him, I’ll deal with him." "Then, sir, a lot of the blankets are being stolen." "Heavens! This life is full of troubles. What is the cause?" "Women, sir! Women! Root of all evil, sir." "Well, I’ll see the colonel about that." (Next day Sergeant Bludgeon and his policemen raided the haunts of every Mary Ann in Mudtown. Two hundred blankets were found—and collared.) "Some of the boots have gone amissing. These devils would steal the sugar out of your tea, sir. I’m nearly balmy, sir. They pawn them for beer, sir." "Well, I’m——!" ejaculated Coronet. "What are we to do?" "Make them march in their bare feet, sir. That will teach them. They’ll soon find another pair—without paying for them. You’re too kind-hearted, sir. They put it on to you." "I suppose they do; in fact, I know they do. But there! they can fight like Trojans. And that is a great consolation, should we ever get in a fix. Now, is there any more correspondence?"