“Met Major Grim, eh?”

“Yes,” said Grim, appearing in the door.  “I came across him in the desert; he reported for duty; I gave him an order, and he obeyed it.  Everything’s regular.”

“Um-m-m!  How’d you make that out—­regular?  Have you any proof he wasn’t a deserter?  He’ll have to be charged with desertion and tried by court martial, I’m afraid.  Possibly a mere formality, but it’ll have to be done, you know, before he can be given a clear discharge.  If he can’t be proved guilty of desertion he’ll be cleared.”

“How long will that take?” Jeremy demanded.

His voice rang sharp with the challenge note that means debate has ceased and quarrel started.  It isn’t the right note for dissolving difficulties.

“Couldn’t tell you,” said the brigadier.  “My advice to you is to keep yourself as inconspicuous as possible until the administrator gets back.”

It was good advice, but Grim, standing behind the brigadier, made signals to Jeremy in vain.  Few Australians talk peace when there is no peace, and when there’s a fight in prospect they like to get it over.

“I remember you,” said Jeremy, speaking rather, slowly, and throwing in a little catchy laugh that was like a war-cry heard through a microphone.  “You were the Fusileer major they lent to the Jordan Highlanders—­fine force that—­no advance without security—­lost two men, if I remember—­snakebite one; the other shot for looting.  Am I right?  So they’ve made you a brigadier!  Aren’t you the staff officer they sent to strafe a regiment of Anzacs for going into action without orders?  We chased you to cover!  I can see you now running for fear we’d shoot you!  Hah!”

Grim took the only course possible in the circumstances.  The brigadier’s neck was crimson, and Jeremy had to be saved somehow.

“Touch of sun, sir—­that and hardship have unhinged him a bit.  Suffers from delusions.  Suppose I keep him here until the doctor sees him?”

“Um-m-m!  Ah!  Yes, you’d better.  See he gets no whisky, will you?  Too bad!  Too bad!  What a pity!”

Our three visitors left in a hurry, contriving to look devilish important.  Grim followed them out.

“Rammy, old cock,” said Jeremy, sprawling on the bed again and laughing, “don’t look all that serious.  Bring back your brigadier and I’ll kiss him on both cheeks while you hold him!  But say; suppose that doctor’s one of these swabs who serve out number nine pills for shell-shock, broken leg, dyspepsia, housemaid’s knee and the creeping itch?  Suppose he swears I’m luny?  What then?”

“Grim will find somebody to swear to anything once,” I answered.  “But you look altogether too dashed healthy—­got to give the doctor-man a chance—­here, get between the sheets and kid that something hurts you.”

“Get out!  The doe ’ud put a cast-iron splint on it, and order me into a hospital.  How about toothache?  That do?  Do they give you bread and water for it?”