“Yes,” he agreed—­“perhaps.  Still, my son, I can’t say I have ever noticed Staff Officers crowding into the trenches (as they have a perfect right to do) at four o’clock in the morning.  And I can’t say I altogether blame them.  In fact, if ever I do meet one performing such a feat, I shall say:  ‘There goes a sahib—­and a soldier!’ and I shall take off my hat to him.”

“Well, get ready now,” said Bobby.  “Look!”

They were still standing at the trench junction.  Two figures, in the uniform of the Staff, were visible in Orchard Trench, working their way down from the apex—­picking their steps amid the tumbled sandbags, and stooping low to avoid gaps in the ruined parapet.  The sun was just rising behind the German trenches.  One of the officers was burly and middle-aged; he did not appear to enjoy bending double.  His companion was slight, fair-haired, and looked incredibly young.  Once or twice he glanced over his shoulder, and smiled encouragingly at his senior.

The pair emerged through the archway into the main trench, and straightened their backs with obvious relief.  The younger officer—­he was a lieutenant—­noticed Captain Blaikie, saluted him gravely, and turned to follow his companion.

Captain Blaikie did not take his hat off, as he had promised.  Instead, he stood suddenly to attention, and saluted in return, keeping his hand uplifted until the slim, childish figure had disappeared round the corner of a traverse.

It was the Prince of Wales.

XX

THE GATHERING OF THE EAGLES

When this war is over, and the glory and the praise are duly assigned, particularly honourable mention should be made of the inhabitants of a certain ancient French town with a Scottish name, which lies not far behind a particularly sultry stretch of the trenches.  The town is subject to shell fire, as splintered walls and shattered windows testify; yet every shop stands open.  The town, moreover, is the only considerable place in the district, and enjoys a monopoly of patronage from all the surrounding billeting areas; yet the keepers of the shops have heroically refrained from putting up their prices to any appreciable extent.  This combination of courage and fair-dealing has had its reward.  The town has become a local Mecca.  British soldiers with an afternoon to spare and a few francs to spend come in from miles around.  Mess presidents send in their mess-sergeants, and fearful and wonderful is the marketing which ensues.

In remote and rural billets catering is a simple matter.  We take what we can get, and leave it at that.  The following business-card, which Bobby Little once found attached to an outhouse door in one of his billets, puts the resources of a French hamlet into a nutshell:—­

  HERE
  SMOKING ROM
  BEER
  WINE {WITHE
       {RAID
  COFFE
  EGS

But in town the shopper has a wider range.  Behold Sergeant Goffin, a true-born Londoner, with the Londoner’s faculty of never being at a loss for a word, at the grocer’s, purchasing comforts for our officers’ mess.