"Och, never heed it, sirr," gasped Peter politely. "Call the sergeant," said the officer. The fat sergeant came out of the guardhouse again, buttoning his tunic. "Sirr?" "Take this man off sentry-duty and roast him at the guard-room fire." "I will, sirr," replied the sergeant; and added paternally, "this man has no right for to be here at all. He should have reported sick when warned for guard; but he would not. He is very attentive to his duties, sirr." "Good boy!" said the officer to Peter. "I wish we had more like you." Wee Pe'er blushed, his teeth momentarily ceased chattering, his heart swelled. Appearances to the contrary, he felt warm all through. The sergeant laid a fatherly hand upon his shoulder. "Go you your ways intil the guard-room, boy," he commanded, "and send oot Dunshie. He'll no hurt. Get close in ahint the stove, or you'll be for Cambridge!" (The last phrase carries no academic significance. It simply means that you are likely to become an inmate of the great Cambridge Hospital at Aldershot.) Peter, feeling thoroughly disgraced, cast an appealing look at the officer. "In you go!" said that martinet. Peter silently obeyed. It was the only time in his life that he ever felt mutinous. A month later Brigade Training set in with customary severity. The life of company officers became a burden. They spent hours in thick woods with their followers, taking cover, ostensibly from the enemy, in reality from brigade-majors and staff officers. A subaltern never tied his platoon in a knot but a general came trotting round the corner. The wet weather had ceased, and a biting east wind reigned in its stead.