‘Much?’ The Infant asked.  The boys smiled deprecatingly.

‘Not in the ante-room, sir,’ said Eames.  ’Then he called us silly children, and went to bed, and we sat up discussin’, and I suppose we got a bit above ourselves, and we—­er—­’

‘Went to his quarters and drew him?’ The Infant suggested.

’Well, we only asked him to get out of bed, and we put his helmet and sword-belt on for him, and we sung him bits out of the Blue Fairy Book—­the cram-book on Army organisation.  Oh yes, and then we asked him to drink old Clausewitz’s health, as a brother-tactician, in milk-punch and Worcester sauce, and so on.  We had to help him a little there.  He bites.  There wasn’t much else that time; but, you know, the War Office is severe on ragging these days.’  Bobby stopped with a lopsided smile.

‘And then,’ Eames went on, ‘then Wontner said we’d done several pounds’ worth of damage to his furniture.’

‘Oh,’ said The Infant, ’he’s that kind of man, is he?  Does he brush his teeth?’

‘Oh yes, he’s quite clean all over!’ said Trivett; ’but his father’s a wealthy barrister.’

‘Solicitor,’ Eames corrected, ’and so this Mister Wontner is out for our blood.  He’s going to make a first-class row about it—­appeal to the War Office—­court of inquiry—­spicy bits in the papers, and songs in the music-halls.  He told us so.’

‘That’s the sort of chap he is,’ said Trivett.  ’And that means old Dhurrah-bags, our Colonel, ’ll be put on half-pay, same as that case in the Scarifungers’ Mess; and our Adjutant’ll have to exchange, like it was with that fellow in the 73rd Dragoons, and there’ll be misery all round.  He means making it too hot for us, and his papa’ll back him.’

‘Yes, that’s all very fine,’ said The Infant; ’but I left the Service about the time you were born, Bobby.  What’s it got to do with me?’

’Father told me I was always to go to you when I was in trouble, and you’ve been awfully good to me since he ...’

‘Better stay to dinner.’  The Infant mopped his forehead.

‘Thank you very much, but the fact is—­’ Trivett halted.

‘This afternoon, about four, to be exact—­’ Eames broke in.

’We went over to Wontner’s quarters to talk things over.  The row only happened last night, and we found him writing letters as hard as he could to his father—­getting up his case for the War Office, you know.  He read us some of ’em, but I’m not a good judge of style.  We tried to ride him off quietly—­apologies and so forth—­but it was the milk-punch and mayonnaise that defeated us.’

‘Yes, he wasn’t taking anything except pure revenge,’ said Eames.

’He said he’d make an example of the regiment, and he was particularly glad that he’d landed our Colonel.  He told us so.  Old Dhurrah-bags don’t sympathise with Wontner’s tactical lectures.  He says Wontner ought to learn manners first, but we thought—­’ Trivett turned to Eames, who was less a son of the house than himself, Eames’s father being still alive.