The early sun, carrying into autumn the tradition of a magnificent summer, shone on the artillery camps. The four guns of the No. 2 Battery of the Second Brigade were ranged side by side in the vast vague space in front of the officers' hutments. Each gun had six horses in three pairs, and a rider for each pair. On the guns and the gun-teams everything glittered that could glitter--leather, metal, coats of horses, faces of men. Captain Resmith rode round, examining harness and equipment with a microscope that he called his eye. George rode round after him. Sometimes Captain Resmith spoke to a N.C.O., sometimes even to a man, but for the most part the men stared straight in front of them into eternity. Major Craim trotted up. Captain Resmith approached the Major and saluted, saying in his best military voice: "The Battery is all correct and ready to move off, sir." The Major in his drawing-room voice replied: "Thank you, Captain Resmith." Silence reigned in No. 2 Battery, except for the faint jingling restlessness of the horses. Then Colonel Hullocher and his Adjutant pranced into sight. The Adjutant saluted the Major and made an inquiry. The Major saluted, and all three chatted a little. George, who had accompanied Captain Resmith into the background, murmured to him, as cautiously as a convict talking at exercise: "He's got his knife into me." "Who?" "The Colonel." "Don't you know why?" "No. I was specially recommended to him." "Well, that's one reason, isn't it? But there was a difficulty between him and the Major as to when you should come. The old man got the better of him--always does. But he's a good officer." "Who?" "Hullocher. Shut up." These two had reached familiarity with the swiftness characteristic of martial life.