“What you done to Hoodoo, Master John?  He’s lame—­and you too.”

Without answering John Penhallow turned to greet Tom McGregor.  “Happy Christmas, Tom.”

“You don’t look very happy, John, nor that poor beast of yours.  But I am glad to have caught you at last.”  The faraway thunder of the siege mortars was heard as he spoke.  “Nice Christmas carol that!  Have you been to-day in the graveyards you call trenches?”

“No, I was not on duty.  I meant to ride over to your hospital to have a home-talk and exchange grumbles, but just as I mounted Colonel Swift stopped with a smartly dressed aide-de-camp.  I saluted.  He said, ’I was looking for an engineer off duty.  Have the kindness to ride with me.’”

“By George!  Tom, he was so polite that I felt sure we were on some unpleasant errand.  I was as civil, and said, ‘With pleasure.’  A nice Christmas celebration!  Well, I have been in the saddle all day.  It rained and froze to sleet on the snow, and the horses slipped and slid most unpleasantly.  About noon we passed our pickets.  I was half frozen.  When we got a bit further, the old colonel pulled up on a hillside and began to ask me questions, how far was that bridge, and could I see their pickets, and where did that cross-road go to.  The aide was apparently ornamental and did not do anything but guess.  I answered with sublime confidence, as my mind got thawed a little and the colonel made notes.”

“I know,” laughed Tom.  “Must never admit in the army that you don’t know.  You can always write ‘respectfully referred’ on a document.  When General Grant visits our hospital and asks questions ten to the minute, I fire back replies after quick consultation with my imagination.  It works.  He assured the surgeon-in-charge that I was a remarkably well-informed officer.  So was he!”

“Come in,” said Penhallow.  “I am cold and cross.  I expect a brevet at least—­nothing less; but if Comstock or Duane reads the colonel’s notes, I may get something else.”

“Have you had a fall, John?  You are pretty dirty, and that horse with the queer name is dead lame.  How did you come to grief?”

“I had an adventure.”

“Really!  What was it?”

“Tell you another time—­it was a queer one.  Here’s Mr. Rivers.”  He was followed by a contraband black with a basket.

“Happy Christmas, boys.  I bring you a Christmas turkey and a plum-pudding from your aunt, John.”

He was made heartily welcome and was in unusually good spirits, as Josiah took possession of these unexpected rations and John got into dry clothes.

They fell to familiar talk of Westways.  “I fear,” said Rivers, “that the colonel is worse.  I am always sure of that when Mrs. Penhallow writes of him as cheerful.”

“My father,” said Tom, “tells me he has days of excessive unnatural gaiety, and then is irritable and cannot remember even the events of yesterday.”