congenial and blameless atmosphere of a Ladies’ Tailor’s in the west end of London, where he enjoyed the status and emoluments of chief cutter.  Now, called back to his native land by the voice of patriotic obligation, he found himself selected, by virtue of a residence of seven years in England, to act as official interpreter between a Scottish Regiment which could not speak English, and Flemish peasants who could not speak French.  No wonder that his pathetic brown eyes always appeared full of tears.  However, he followed Cockerell down the street, and meekly embarked upon a contest with the lady Inhabitants thereof, in which he was hopelessly outmatched from the start.

At the first door a dame of massive proportions, but keen business instincts, announced her total inability to accommodate soldats, but explained that she would be pleased to entertain officiers to any number.  This is a common gambit.  Twenty British privates in your grenier, though extraordinarily well-behaved as a class, make a good deal of noise, buy little, and leave mud everywhere.  On the other hand, two or three officers give no trouble, and can be relied upon to consume and pay for unlimited omelettes and bowls of coffee.

That seasoned vessel, Lieutenant Cockerell, turned promptly to the Sergeant and Corporal of “C” Company.

“Sergeant M’Nab,” he said, “you and Corporal Downie will billet here.”  He introduced hostess and guests by an expressive wave of the hand.  But shrewd Madame was not to be bluffed.

“Pas de sergents, Monsieur le Capitaine!” she exclaimed. “Officiers!”

“Ils sont officiers—­sous-officiers,” explained Cockerell, rather ingeniously, and moved off down the street.

At the next house the owner—­a small, wizened lady of negligible physique but great staying power—­entered upon a duet with Alphonso, which soon reduced that very moderate performer to breathlessness.  He shrugged his shoulders feebly, and cast an appealing glance towards the Lieutenant.

“What does she say?” inquired Cockerell.

“She say dis’ ouse no good, sair!  She ’ave seven children, and one malade—­seek.”

“Let me see,” commanded the practical officer.

He insinuated himself as politely as possible past his reluctant opponent, and walked down the narrow passage into the kitchen.  Here he turned, and inquired—­

“Er—­ou est la pauvre petite chose?”

Madame promptly opened a door, and displayed a little girl in bed—­a very flushed and feverish little girl.

Cockerell grinned sympathetically at the patient, to that young lady’s obvious gratification; and turned to the mother.

“Je suis tres—­triste,” he said; “j’ai grand misericorde.  Je ne placerai pas de soldats ici.  Bon jour!”

By this time he was in the street again.  He saluted politely and departed, followed by the grateful regards of Madame.