‘Was it?’ said Pyecroft dreamily.  ’Well, he couldn’t say they didn’t come.  They all came, and they all fell to arguin’ whether the Infantry should ’ave Persimmon for a regimental pet or the Cavalry should keep him for stud purposes.  Hence the issue was soon clouded with mangold-wurzels.  Our commander said we ’ad sowed the good seed, and it was bearing abundant fruit. (They weigh between four and seven pounds apiece.) Seein’ the children ’ad got over their shyness, and ’ad really begun to play games, we backed out o’ the pit and went down, by steps, to the camp below, no man, as you might say, making us afraid.  Here we enjoyed a front view of the battle, which rolled with renewed impetus, owing to both sides receiving strong reinforcements every minute.  All arms were freely represented; Cavalry, on this occasion only, acting in concert with Artillery.  They argued the relative merits of horses versus feet, so to say, but they didn’t neglect Persimmon.  The wounded rolling downhill with the wurzels informed us that he had long ago been socialised, and the smallest souvenirs were worth a man’s life.  Speaking broadly, the Junior Service appeared to be a shade out of ’and, if I may venture so far.  They did not pay prompt and unhesitating obedience to the “Retires” or the “Cease Fires” or the “For ’Eaven’s sake come to bed, ducky” of their officers, who, I regret to say, were ’otly embroiled at the heads of their respective units.’

‘How did you find that out?’ I asked.

’On account of Lootenant Morshed going to the Mess tent to call on his uncle and raise a drink; but all hands had gone to the front.  We thought we ’eard somebody bathing behind the tent, and we found an oldish gentleman tryin’ to drown a boy in knickerbockers in a horse-trough.  He kept him under with a bicycle, so to speak.  He ’ad nearly accomplished his fell design, when we frustrated him.  He was in a highly malleable condition and full o’ juice de spree.  “Arsk not what I am,” he says.  “My wife ’ll tell me that quite soon enough.  Arsk rather what I’ve been,” he says.  “I’ve been dinin’ here,” he says.  “I commanded ’em in the Eighties,” he says, “and, Gawd forgive me,” he says, sobbin’ ’eavily, “I’ve spent this holy evening telling their Colonel they was a set of educated inefficients.  Hark to ’em!” We could, without strainin’ ourselves; but how he picked up the gentle murmur of his own corps in that on-the-knee party up the hill I don’t know.  “They’ve marched and fought thirty mile to-day,” he shouts, “and now they’re tearin’ the intestines out of the Cavalry up yonder!  They won’t stop this side the gates o’ Delhi,” he says.  “I commanded their ancestors.  There’s nothing wrong with the Service,” he says, wringing out his trousers on his lap.  “‘Eaven pardon me for doubtin’ ’em!  Same old game—­same young beggars.”