’He laid his hand on my shoulder.  “Pye,” says he, “there’s worse men than you in loftier places.  They shall ’ave it.  None the less,” he remarks, “the ice is undeniably packing.”

’I may ’ave omitted to point out that at this juncture two large armies, both deprived of their night’s sleep, was awake, as you might say, and hurryin’ into each other’s arms.  Here endeth the second chapter.’

He filled his pipe slowly.  The uncle had fallen asleep.  Leggatt lit another cigarette.

’We then proceeded ong automobile along the ridge in a westerly direction towards the miniature fort which had been so kindly revealed by the searchlight, but which on inspection (your Mr. Leggatt bumped into an outlyin’ reef of it) proved to be a wurzel-clump; c’est-a-dire, a parallelogrammatic pile of about three million mangold-wurzels, brought up there for the sheep, I suppose.  On all sides, excep’ the one we’d come by, the ground fell away moderately quick, and down at the bottom there was a large camp lit up an’ full of harsh words of command.

’"I said it was the key to the position,” Lootenant Morshed remarks.  “Trot out Persimmon!” which we rightly took to read, “Un-wrap the rocking-horse.”

‘"Houp la!” says Jules in a insubordinate tone, an’ slaps Persimmon on the flank.

’"Silence!” says the Lootenant.  “This is the Royal Navy, not Newmarket”; and we carried Persimmon to the top of the mangel-wurzel clump as directed.

’Owing to the inequalities of the terrain (I do think your Mr. Leggatt might have had a spirit-level in his kit) he wouldn’t rock free on the bed-plate, and while adjustin’ him, his detachable tail fetched adrift.  Our Lootenant was quick to seize the advantage.

’"Remove that transformation,” he says.  “Substitute one Roman candle.  Gas-power is superior to manual propulsion.”

’So we substituted.  He arranged the piece de resistarnce in the shape of large drums—­not saucers, mark you—­drums of coloured fire, with printed instructions, at proper distances round Persimmon.  There was a brief interregnum while we dug ourselves in among the wurzels by hand.  Then he touched off the fires, not omitting the Roman candle, and, you may take it from me, all was visible.  Persimmon shone out in his naked splendour, red to port, green to starboard, and one white light at his bows, as per Board o’ Trade regulations.  Only he didn’t so much rock, you might say, as shrug himself, in a manner of speaking, every time the candle went off.  One can’t have everything.  But the rest surpassed our highest expectations.  I think Persimmon was noblest on the starboard or green side—­more like when a man thinks he’s seeing mackerel in hell, don’t you know?  And yet I’d be the last to deprecate the effect of the port light on his teeth, or that blood-shot look in his left eye.  He knew there was something going on he didn’t approve of.  He looked worried.’