Old Carmichael permits himself one brief look into his son’s grave, resumes his crape-bound tall hat, and turns heavily away.  He finds Captain Blaikie’s hand waiting for him.  He grips it, and says—­

“Weel, the laddie has had a grand sojer’s funeral.  His mother will be pleased to hear that.”

He passes on, and shakes hands with the platoon sergeant and one or two of Peter’s cronies.  He declines an invitation to the Sergeants’ Mess.

“I hae a trial-trup the morn,” he explains.  “I must be steppin’.  God keep ye all, brave lads!”

The old gentleman sets off down the station road.  The company falls in, and we march back to barracks, leaving Wee Pe’er—­the first name on our Roll of Honour—­alone in his glory beneath, the Hampshire pines.

XIII

CONCERT PITCH

We have only two topics of conversation now—­the date of our departure, and our destination.  Both are wrapped in mystery so profound that our range of speculation is practically unlimited.

Conjecture rages most fiercely in the Officers’ Mess, which is in touch with sources of unreliable information not accessible to the rank and file.  The humblest subaltern appears to be possessed of a friend at court, or a cousin in the Foreign Office, or an aunt in the Intelligence Department, from whom he can derive fresh and entirely different information each week-end leave.

Master Cockerell, for instance, has it straight from the Horse Guards that we are going out next week—­as a single unit, to be brigaded with two seasoned regiments in Flanders.  He has a considerable following.

Then comes Waddell, who has been informed by the Assistant sub-Editor of an evening journal widely read in his native Dundee, that The First Hundred Thousand are to sit here, eating the bread of impatience, until The First Half Million are ready.  Thereupon we shall break through our foeman’s line at a point hitherto unassailed and known only to the scribe of Dundee, and proceed to roll up the German Empire as if it were a carpet, into some obscure corner of the continent of Europe.

Bobby Little, not the least of whose gifts is a soaring imagination, has mapped out a sort of strategical Cook’s Tour for us, beginning with the sack of Constantinople, and ending, after a glorified route-march up the Danube and down the Rhine, which shall include a pitched battle once a week and a successful siege once a month, with a “circus” entry into Potsdam.

Captain Wagstaffe offers no opinion, but darkly recommends us to order pith helmets.  However, we are rather suspicious of Captain Wagstaffe these days.  He suffers from an over-developed sense of humour.