African ones, he hoped.  For himself, after the case was decided, he proposed to go on living in the regiment, just to prove—­for he bore no malice—­that times had changed, nosque mutamur in illis—­if we knew what that meant.  Infant had curled his legs out of reach, so I was quite free to return thanks yet once more to Allah for the diversity of His creatures in His adorable world.

And so, by way of an eighty-year-old liqueur brandy, to tactics and the great General Clausewitz, unknown to the Average Army Man.  Here The Infant, at a whisper from Ipps—­whose face had darkened like a mulberry while he waited—­excused himself and went away, but Stalky, Colonel of Territorials, wanted some tips on tactics.  He got them unbrokenly for ten minutes—­Wontner and Clausewitz mixed, but Wontner in a film of priceless cognac distinctly on top.  When The Infant came back, he renewed his clear-spoken demand that Infant should take his depositions.  I supposed this to be a family trait of the Wontners, whom I had been visualising for some time past even to the third generation.

‘But, hang it all, they’re both asleep!’ said Infant, scowling at me.  ’Ipps let ’em have the ‘81 port.’

‘Asleep!’ said Stalky, rising at once.  ’I don’t see that makes any difference.  As a matter of form, you’d better identify them.  I’ll show you the way.’

We followed up the white stone side-staircase that leads to the bachelors’ wing.  Mr. Wontner seemed surprised that the boys were not in the coal-cellar.

‘Oh, a chap’s assumed to be innocent until he’s proved guilty,’ said Stalky, mounting step by step.  ’How did they get you into the sack, Mr. Wontner?’

‘Jumped on me from behind—­two to one,’ said Mr. Wontner briefly.  ’I think I handed each of them something first, but they roped my arms and legs.’

‘And did they photograph you in the sack?’

‘Good Heavens, no!’ Mr. Wontner shuddered.

‘That’s lucky.  Awful thing to live down—­a photograph, isn’t it?’ said Stalky to me as we reached the landing.  ’I’m thinking of the newspapers, of course.’

’Oh, but you can easily have sketches in the illustrated papers from accounts supplied by eye-witnesses,’ I said.

Mr. Wontner turned him round.  It was the first time he had honoured me by his notice since our talk in the garage.

‘Ah,’ said he, ’do you pretend to any special knowledge in these matters?’

‘I’m a journalist by profession,’ I answered simply but nobly.  ’As soon as you’re at liberty, I’d like to have your account of the affair.’

Now I thought he would have loved me for this, but he only replied in an uncomfortable, uncoming-on voice, ‘Oh, you would, would you?’

‘Not if it’s any trouble, of course,’ I said.  ’I can always get their version from the defendants.  Do either of ’em draw or sketch at all, Mr. Wontner?  Or perhaps your father might—­’