The road gave on open country in a few miles, though there were camps to be seen between it and the river, with wharves and buildings at intervals, and ahead a biggish waterside village.  Just short of that they pulled up.  A notice-board remarked “No. 5 Rest Camp,” and Peter saw he had arrived.

The sun was well up by this time, and his spirits with it.  The country smiled in the clear light.  Behind the camp fields ran up to a thick wood through which wound a road, and the river was just opposite them.  A sentry came to attention as they passed in, sloped arms, and saluted.  Peter stared at him.  “You ought to take the salute, padre,” said Jenks; “you’re senior to me, you know.”

They passed down a regular street of huts, most of which had little patches of garden before them in which the green of some early spring flowers was already showing, and stopped before the orderly-room.  Jenks said he would look in and see if “the skipper” were inside, and in a second or two came out with a red-faced, cheerful-looking man, whom he introduced as Captain Harold.  With them was a tall young Scots officer in a kilt, whom Peter learned was Lieutenant Mackay of their mess.

“Glad to see you, padre,” said Harold.  “Our last man wasn’t up to much, and Jenks says you’re a sport.  I’ve finished in there, so come on to the mess and let’s have a spot for luck.  Come on, Scottie.  Eleven o’clock’s all right for you, isn’t it?”

“Shan’t say no,” said the gentleman addressed, and they passed behind the orderly-room and in at an open door.

Peter glanced curiously round.  The place was very cheerful—­a fire burning and gay pictures on the wall.  “Rather neat, isn’t it, padre?” queried Harold.  “By the way, you’ve got to dub up a picture.  Everyone in the mess gives one.  There’s a blank space over there that’ll do nicely for a Kirschner, if you’re sport enough for that, Jenko’ll show you where to get a topper.  What’s yours, old son?”

“Same as usual, skipper,” said Jenks, throwing himself into a chair.

Harold walked across to a little shuttered window and tapped.  A man’s face appeared in the opening, “Four whiskies, Hunter—­that’s all right, padre?”

“Yes,” said Peter, and walked to the fire, while the talk became general.

“First time over?” queried Mackay.

“Well, how’s town?” asked Harold.  “Good shows on?  I ought to be due next month, but I think I’ll! wait a bit.  Want to get over in the spring and see a bit of the country too.  What do they think of the war over there, Jenko?”

“It’s going to be over by summer.  There’s a big push coming off this spring, and Fritz can’t stand much more.  He’s starving, and has no reserves worth talking of.  The East does not matter, though the doings at Salonika have depressed them no end.  This show’s going to be won on the West, and that quickly.  Got it, old bean?”

“Good old Blighty!” ejaculated Harold.  “But they don’t really believe all that, do they, padre?”