However, the tide of popular favour turned with the haggis, contributed by Lieutenant Angus M’Lachlan, from a parcel from home.  Even the fact that the Mess cook, an inexperienced aesthete from Islington, had endeavoured to tone down the naked repulsiveness of the dainty with discreet festoons of tinned macaroni, failed to arouse the resentment of a purely Scottish Mess.  The next course—­the beef ration, hacked into the inevitable gobbets and thinly disguised by a sprinkling of curry powder—­aroused no enthusiasm; but the unexpected production of a large tin of Devonshire cream, contributed by Captain Bobby Little, relieved the canned peaches of their customary monotony.  Last of all came a savoury—­usually described as the savoury—­consisting of a raft of toast per person, each raft carrying an abundant cargo of fried potted meat, and provided with a passenger in the shape of a recumbent sausage.

A compound of grounds and dish-water, described by the optimistic Mess Corporal as coffee, next made its appearance, mitigated by a bottle of Cointreau and a box of Panatellas; and the Mess turned itself to more intellectual refreshment.  A heavy and long-overdue mail had been found waiting at St. Gregoire.  Letters had been devoured long ago.  Now, each member of the Mess leaned back in his chair, straightened his weary legs under the table, and settled down, cigar in mouth, to the perusal of the Spectator or the Tatler, according to rank and literary taste.

Colonel Kemp, unfolding a week-old Times, looked over his glasses at his torpid disciples.

“Where is young Sandeman?” he inquired.

Young Sandeman was the Adjutant.

“He went out to the Orderly Room, sir, five minutes ago,” replied Bobby Little.

“I only want to give him to-morrow’s Orders.  No doubt he’ll be back presently.  I may as well mention to you fellows that I propose to allow the men three clear days’ rest, except for bathing and re-clothing.  After that we must do Company Drill, good and hard, so as to polish up the new draft, who are due to-morrow.  I am going to start a bombing-school, too:  at least seventy-five per cent. of the Battalion ought to pass the test before we go back to the line.  However, we need not rush things.  We should be here in peace for at least a month.  We must get up some sports, and I think it would be a sound scheme to have a singsong one Saturday night.  I was just saying, Sandeman,”—­this to the Adjutant, who reentered the room at that moment,—­“that it would be a sound—­”

The Adjutant laid a pink field-telegraph slip before his superior.

“This has just come in from Brigade Headquarters, sir,” he said.  “I have sent for the Sergeant-Major.”

The Colonel adjusted his glasses and read the despatch.  A deathly, sickening silence reigned in the room.  Then he looked up.

“I am afraid I was a bit previous,” he said quietly.  “The Royal Stickybacks have lost the Kidney Bean, and we are detailed to go up and retake it.  Great compliment to the regiment, but a trifle mistimed!  You young fellows had better go to bed.  Parade at 4 A.M., sharp!  Good-night!  Come along to the Orderly Room, Sandeman.”