“Very well:  I will not probe the matter.  Been to the War Office?”

“Yes.  I was there this morning.  I am to be Adjutant of a Cadet school, at Great Snoreham.  What sort of a job is that likely to be?”

“On the whole,” replied Wagstaffe, “a Fairy Godmother Department job.  It might have been very much worse.  You are thoroughly up to the Adjutant business, Bobby, and of course the young officers under you will be immensely impressed by your game leg and bit of ribbon.  A very sound appointment.”

“What are they going to do with you?” asked Bobby in his turn.

“I am to command our Reserve Battalion, with acting rank of Lieutenant-Colonel.  Think of that, my lad!  They have confirmed you in your rank as Captain, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Good!  The only trouble is that you will be stationed in the South of England and I in the North of Scotland; so we shall not see quite so much of one another as of late.  However, we must get together occasionally, and split a tin of bully for old times’ sake.”

“Bully?  By gum!” said Bobby thoughtfully.  “I have almost forgotten what it tastes like. (Fried sole, please; then roast lamb.) Eight months in hospital do wash out certain remembrances.”

“But not all,” said Wagstaffe.

“No, not all.  I—­I wonder how our chaps are getting on, over there.”

“The regiment?”

“Yes.  It is so hard to get definite news.”

“They were in the Arras show.  Did better than ever; but—­well, they required a big draft afterwards.”

“The third time!” sighed Bobby.  “Did any one write to you about it?”

“Yes.  Who do you think?”

“Some one in the regiment?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know there were any of the old lot left.  Who was it?”

“Mucklewame.”

“Mucklewame?  You mean to say the Boche hasn’t got him yet?  It’s like missing Rheims Cathedral.”

“Yes, they got him at Arras.  Mucklewame is in hospital.  Fortunately his chief wound is in the head, so he’s doing nicely.  Here is his letter.”

Bobby took the pencilled screed, and read:—­

Major Wagstaffe,

Sir,—­I take up my pen for to inform you that I am now in hospital in
Glasgow, having become a cassuality on the 18th inst.

I was struck on the head by the nose-cap of a German shell (now in the possession of my guidwife).  Unfortunately I was wearing one of they steel helmets at the time, with the result that I sustained a serious scalp-wound, also very bad concussion.  I have never had a liking for they helmets anyway.

The old regiment did fine in the last attack.  They were specially mentioned in Orders next day.  The objective was reached under heavy fire and position consolidated before we were relieved next morning_.

“Good boys!” interpolated Bobby softly.

Colonel Carmichael, late of the Second Battn., I think, is now in command.  A very nice gentleman, but we have all been missing you and the Captain.