“I beg your pardon, Mr. Shafto, sir, but I see you don’t know me.” “Well, no, I can’t say that I do,” replied Shafto, casting his mind over the last eighteen months. “Well, of course, sir, I’m entirely different to what ye may remember in Rangoon.” “What?—you don’t mean to say——” The late _pongye_ nodded with emphasis.. “I’m now Sergeant-Major Ryan, in the second battalion of the old regiment.” Then suddenly stepping back and lowering his voice, he added, “They think I’m me brother. Shure, I never had one. And how is yourself, sir?” “All right; I’m a machine-gun officer attached to the Blanks.” “And the young lady?” “She’s a Red Cross nurse at Rouen—I saw her three months ago.” “When next you meet will you give her my humble respects and tell her I’ve not forgotten her invitation, an’ I’m coming to the wedding?” “And no one will be more welcome; you have our address. I’m told you’ve been in some heavy fighting?” “Well, yes, sir, at Ypres we lost eighteen of our officers; oh, it was a cruel bad mix-up. Still and all, the Boches were given their tea in a mug! After our last charge ye’d see thim going every way—like crows in a storm! Our guns are grand; as for them aeroplanes they do all but speak; and the Tanks are wonders, God bless them!” “You have been wounded?” “Only just a cat’s scratch—the German wire is mighty stiff; and there’s six-inch spikes. Well, since we were last together, sir, you and I have been through a strange time and seen sights as we can’t talk about. One thing is sure, we’ll worry through all right.” “Oh, yes, we shall, and give the Boches something to think about.” The sudden opening of a distant door released a roar of voices singing, “Take me back to Blighty!” a rousing demand which instantly recalled the sergeant-major to his duty. “Well, sir,” he said, “I must be moving; so I’ll wish you good-bye, and the best of luck.” “The same to you, Ryan. You’ll let us have a line to say how you get on, won’t you?” Shafto held out his hand; Ryan gave it a hard, convulsive squeeze, and in another moment the stalwart Irishman had saluted and tramped forth. “An old friend, I see,” remarked Tremenheere. “Yes, I knew him in Burma.” “He is a tip-top non-com., and has the D.C.M. and the French Cross; he worked miracles when his officers were killed at Ypres. They offered him a commission, but he wouldn’t take it. The men love him; though he has some funny fads, never touches meat, and sings queer outlandish chants; but he’s the splendid sort of fellow who was _born_ for this war; full of heroic qualities and as hard as a bag of nails. I suppose his regiment was in Rangoon.” “Not in my time,” replied Shafto. He hesitated for a moment, and then added, “If I were to tell you how I came across that Irish sergeant-major you’d say I was pulling your leg.” “Oh, go on, then—pull away.” “When I first met him he was a Burmese priest, with a shorn head, yellow robe, and begging-bowl.”