"Your question is not allowed," the colonel replied sternly. "There is plenty of other evidence to show that Sergeant Honk’s vision was reasonably accurate." Other witnesses were called, but the evidence was all equally damning. At last the colonel asked the prisoner if he had any further defence to offer. Jogman replied: "Yes, sir. Last month I fell from the boiler and my head has been queer ever since. When I take a drink I don’t know what I’m doin’. I don’t remember anything about all this." And the Colonel replied: "This month you fell from the water waggon, and your head is queerer than before. For the crime of which you are guilty you might be shot; but I intend being lenient with you—on one condition—" Jogman looked up expectantly. "—and that is—that you sign the pledge that you will not touch another drop of liquor while you are in France." Honk looked as if he thought this worse than being shot. Jogman glanced furtively at the colonel’s face; he had never seen him look so severe before. It was a big sacrifice, but it could not be avoided. He heaved a sigh and replied slowly: "I’ll—sign—it, sir!" "Twenty-eight days First Field Punishment!" "Right turn, quick march!" cried the sergeant-major; and "office" was over for the day. Remorseful recollection of the pledge he had just signed clouded Jogman’s brow. "He’s gone an’ spoiled th’ whole war fer me," he grumbled, as they led him away. *CHAPTER X* Reggy might have been a success as Mess Secretary, if it hadn’t been for the Camembert cheese. No one could have remained popular long under such a handicap. He had discovered it in some outlandish shop in Paris-plage. The shopkeeper had been ostracised and the health authorities called in. Some one has said that cheese improves with age. I do not propose to indulge in futile argument with _connoisseurs_, but Reggy’s cheese had passed maturity and died an unnatural death. When he produced its green moss-covered remains upon the table, the officers were forthwith divided into two factions—those who liked cheese and those who did not; and the latter class stated their objections with an emphasis and strength which rivalled the Camembert. Corporal Granger had charge of the Mess. He was a quiet, gentlemanly little chap who said little, thought much, and smoked when he had a chance. He opened the box before dinner, took a whiff which distorted his face, and silently passed the box to his assistants. Wilson and René—a French-Canadian lad—wrinkled their noses in unison over it; then Wilson drawled: "Smells—like a—disease—we uster have—in the ward upstairs." But René’s atavistic sense approved the cheese. "Dat’s bon fromage," he declaimed emphatically. "Cheese ain’t good until it smells like dat." "Then folks to home eats a lot what’s bad fer them—don’t they?" Wilson retorted, with mild satire; "an’ them so healthy too!"