So the Hairy Jocks trudged along the long, straight, nubbly French road, well content, speculating with comfortable pessimism as to the character of the billets in which they would find themselves.

Meanwhile, ten miles ahead, the advance party were going round the town in quest of the billets.

Billet-hunting on the Western Front is not quite so desperate an affair as hunting for lodgings at Margate, because in the last extremity you can always compel the inhabitants to take you in—­or at least, exert pressure to that end through the Mairie.  But at the best one’s course is strewn with obstacles, and fortunate is the Adjutant who has to his hand a subaltern capable of finding lodgings for a thousand men without making a mess of it.

The billeting officer on this, as on most occasions, was our friend Cockerell,—­affectionately known to the entire Battalion as “Sparrow,”—­and his qualifications for the post were derived from three well-marked and invaluable characteristics, namely, an imperious disposition, a thick skin, and an attractive bonhomie of manner.

Behold him this morning dismounting from his horse in the place of St. Gregoire.  Around him are grouped his satellites—­the Quartermaster-Sergeant, four Company Sergeants, some odd orderlies, and a forlorn little man in a neat drab uniform with light blue facings,—­the regimental interpreter.  The party have descended, with the delicate care of those who essay to perform acrobatic feats in kilts, from bicycles—­serviceable but appallingly heavy machines of Government manufacture, the property of the “Buzzers,” but commandeered for the occasion.  The Quartermaster-Sergeant, who is not accustomed to strenuous exercise, mops his brow and glances expectantly round the place.  His eye comes gently to rest upon a small but hospitable-looking estaminet.

Lieutenant Cockerell examines his wrist-watch.

“Half-past ten!” he announces.  “Quartermaster-Sergeant!”

“Sirr!” The Quartermaster-Sergeant unglues his longing gaze from the estaminet and comes woodenly to attention.

“I am going to see the Town Major about a billeting area.  I will meet you and the party here in twenty minutes.”

Master Cockerell trots off on his mud-splashed steed, followed by the respectful and appreciative salutes of his followers—­appreciative, because a less considerate officer would have taken the whole party direct to the Town Major’s office and kept them standing in the street, wasting moments which might have been better employed elsewhere, until it was time to proceed with the morning’s work.

* * * * *

“How strong are you?” inquired the Town Major.

Cockerell told him.  The Town Major whistled.

“That all?  Been doing some job of work, haven’t you?”

Cockerell nodded, and the Town Major proceeded to examine a large-scale plan of St. Gregoire, divided up into different-coloured plots.