“Thank you very much, sir,” said Master Cockerell, entirely thawed.  “I’m afraid my chaps were lying all over the road; but they are pretty well down and out at present.”

“Where have you come from?” inquired the Major, turning a curious eye upon Cockerell’s prostrate followers.

Cockerell explained When he had finished, he added wistfully—­

“I suppose you have not got an odd tin or two of bully to give away, sir?  My fellows are about—­”

For answer, the Major took the Lieutenant by the arm and led him towards the lorry.

“You have come,” he announced, “to the very man you want.  I am practically Mr. Harrod.  In fact, I am a Corps Supply Officer.  How would a Maconochie apiece suit your boys?”

Cockerell, repressing the ecstatic phrases which crowded to his tongue, replied that that was just what the doctor had ordered.

“Where are you bound for?” continued the Major.

“St. Gregoire.”

“Of course.  You were pulled out from there, weren’t you?  I am going to St. Gregoire myself as soon as I have finished my round.  Home to bed, in fact.  I haven’t had any sleep worth writing home about for four nights.  It is no joke tearing about a country full of shell-holes, hunting for people who have shifted their ration-dump seven times in four days.  However, I suppose things will settle down again, now that you fellows have fired Brother Boche out of the Kidney Bean.  Pretty fine work, too!  Tell me, what is your strength, here and now?”

“One officer,” said Cockerell soberly, “and eighteen other ranks.”

“All that’s left of your platoon?”

Cockerell nodded.  The stout Major began to beat upon the tailboard of the lorry with his stick.

“Sergeant Smurthwaite!” he shouted.

There came a muffled grunt from the recesses of the lorry.  Then a round and ruddy face rose like a harvest moon above the tailboard, and a stertorous voice replied respectfully—­

“Sir?”

“Let down this tailboard; load this officer’s platoon into the lorry; issue them with a Maconochie and a tot of rum apiece; and don’t forget to put Smee under arrest for dangerous driving when we get back to billets.”

“Very good, sir.”

Ten minutes later the survivors of Number Nine Platoon, soaked to the skin, dazed, slightly incredulous, but at peace with all the world, reclined close-packed upon the floor of the swaying lorry.  Each man held an open tin of Mr. Maconochie’s admirable ration between his knees.  Perfect silence reigned:  a pleasant aroma of rum mellowed the already vitiated atmosphere.

In front, beside the chastened Mr. Smee, sat the Major and Master Cockerell.  The latter had just partaken of his share of refreshment, and was now endeavouring, with lifeless fingers, to light a cigarette.

The Major scrutinised his guest intently.  Then he stripped off his British Warm coat—­incidentally revealing the fact that he wore upon his tunic the ribbons of both South African Medals and the Distinguished Service Order—­and threw it round Cockerell’s shoulders.