“Ah, yes.  They’re at Suvla, I think.”

“How nice!” commented Monty.  It seemed a suitable remark.

“Well, anyhow,” proceeded the M.L.O., in the relieved manner of one who has chosen which of two doubtful courses to adopt, and is happy in his choice, “there’s a boat going to Suvla to-night.  The Redbreast, I think.  I’ll make you out a passage for the Redbreast.”

He did so, and handed the chit to Monty, who replied: 

“Thanks.  But supposing the Cheshires are not at Suvla?”

“Why, then,” explained the M.L.O., smiling at having an indubitable answer ready, “they’ll be at Helles.”

And he beamed agreeably.

Just then there entered the cabin a middle-aged major with a monocle, none other than our old friend, Major Hardy of the Rangoon.  He fixed us with his monocle and said:  “Well, I’m damned!  Young Ray!  Young Doe!  Young Padre!” Immediately there followed a fine scene of reunion, in which Monty explained our delay at Mudros; Major Hardy told us that he had been appointed Brigade Major to our own brigade, his predecessor having been killed on Fusilier Bluff by the whizz-bang gun; and the M.L.O. shone over all like a benignant angel.

“Ah!  Another for the East Cheshires,” said he.  “Can I have your name, Major?”

“Hardy,” came the answer.

“’Hardy’—­let me see,” and the M.L.O. ran his finger down a big Nominal Roll.  “Harris, Harrison, Hartop, Hastings—­no ‘Hardy’ here, Major.  Are you sure it’s not Hartop?”

The owner of the name declared that he was bloody sure.

“Well, I may be wrong,” acknowledged the M.L.O.  “Why, yes—­here we are, ‘Hardy.’  Well, you left yesterday, and are with your unit.”  And he put the Nominal Roll away, as much as to say:  “The matter’s settled, so, as you’re there already, you won’t need a passage.”

“I beg your pardon, damn you,” corrected the Major.  “I’m in your filthy office, seeking a chit to get to the East Cheshires.”

“I don’t see how that can be,” grumbled the M.L.O., so far as such a delightful person was capable of grumbling.  “But, of course, there may be a mistake somewhere.”

“Well, perhaps you’ll be good enough,” suggested Major Hardy, “to give me a chit to proceed to the East Cheshires to look into the matter.”

“Oh, certainly,” agreed the M.L.O., with that prepossessing smile which came to his lips when he had discovered the solution of a problem.  “There are two boats going to the Peninsula to-night, one to Suvla and the other to Helles.  The Redbreast is the one that’s going to Suvla, I fancy, and the Ermine to Helles.  At any rate, try the Redbreast, Major.”

“Yes,” interrupted the Major, “but supposing the Redbreast doesn’t go to Suvla—­what?”

“Why, then,” replied the M.L.O., promptly and brightly, “it’ll go to Helles.”

This enlightened remark produced such a torrent of oaths from Major Hardy as was only stemmed by the M.L.O.’s assurance that there was no real doubt about the Redbreast’s going to Suvla.  We left the cabin to the sound of a long “Ha-ha-ha!” from its engaging occupant, who had been tickled, you see, by the Major’s outburst.