No special difficulties were encountered at the next few houses.  The ladies at the house-door were all polite; many of them were most friendly; but naturally each was anxious to get as few men and as many officers as possible—­except the proprietess of an estaminel, who offered to accommodate the entire regiment.  However, with a little tact here and a little firmness there, Master Cockerell succeeded in distributing “C” Company among some dozen houses.  One old gentleman, with a black alpaca cap and a six-days beard, proprietor of a lofty establishment at the corner of the street, proved not only recalcitrant, but abusive.  With him Cockerell dealt promptly.

“Ca suffit!” he announced. “Montres-moi votre grenier!”

The old man, grumbling, led the way up numerous rickety staircases to the inevitable loft under the tiles.  This proved to be a noble apartment thirty feet long.  From wall to wall stretched innumerable strings.

“We can get a whole platoon in here,” said Cockerell contentedly.  “Tell him, Alphonso.  These people,” he explained to Sergeant M’Nab, “always dislike giving up their lofts, because they hang their laundry there in winter.  However, the old boy must lump it.  After all, we are in this country for his health, not ours; and he gets paid for every man who sleeps here.  That fixes ‘C’ Company.  Now for ‘D’!  The other side of the street this time.”

Quarters were found in due course for “D” Company; after which Cockerell discovered a vacant building-site which would serve for transport lines.  An empty garage was marked down for the Quartermaster’s ration store, and the Quartermaster-Sergeant promptly faded into its recesses with a grateful sigh.  An empty shop in the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, conveniently adjacent to Battalion Headquarters, was appropriated for that gregarious band, the regimental signallers and telephone section; while a suitable home for the Anarchists, or Bombers, together with their stock-in-trade, was found in the basement of a remote dwelling on the outskirts of the area.

After this, Lieutenant Cockerell, left alone with Alphonso and the orderly in charge of his horse, heaved a sigh of exhaustion and transferred his attention from his notebook to his watch.

“That finishes the rank and file,” he said.  “I breakfasted at four this morning, and the battalion won’t arrive for a couple of hours yet.  Alphonso, I am going to have an omelette somewhere.  I shall want you in half an hour exactly.  Don’t go wandering off for the rest of the day, pinching soft billets for yourself and the Sergeant-Major and your other pals, as you usually do!”

Alphonso saluted guiltily—­evidently the astute Cockerell had “touched the spot”—­and was turning away, when suddenly the billeting officer’s eye encountered an illegible scrawl at the very foot of his list.

“Stop a moment, Alphonso!  I have forgotten those condemned machine-gunners, as usual. Strafe them!  Come on!  Once more into the breach, Alphonso!  There is a little side-alley down here that we have not tried.”