“You will see that it is impossible to write any reply to ‘Bumjo’ at present as I have not the time.[9] I also warn you not to get the wind up if you do not hear from me for a week or so.  I can quite foresee a period of that length elapsing between my letters now, as before this present week is out we shall be engaged in fighting the great battle of the North.  ‘Bumjo’ will have to wait until we come out of action again.  I intend to deal with him and give him the telling-off which his impudence and his treason are asking for after the battle.  I hope to have more leisure then!  So au revoir!”

These days at Watou, while being days full of work, were not unpleasant.  We had plenty to talk about; and, seated on the grass on a summer evening, Joe Roake would make us rock with laughter at his quaint and humorous tales of his experiences when a sergeant at Loos and other battles.  Roake was always a great asset to any mess when he honoured it by a visit.  He hated Headquarters Mess; he was always ready to jump at any excuse to get away from the society of Colonel Best-Dunkley; and he was never happier than when, over a nice selection of drinks, he was retailing the Colonel’s latest sayings and doings.  And we, needless to say, were never happier than when listening to him on this most interesting topic!  Roake and Humfrey with little “Darky,” who was their invariable companion, were always welcome.

It was at this time that news came across that a son and heir had been born to Colonel Best-Dunkley.  The event was one of considerable interest, and was widely discussed.  “Poor little ——!  To think that there’s another Best-Dunkley in the world to look forward to!” exclaimed our humorous friend when he heard the news.  “Well, when he grows up he will always have the gratification of knowing that his father was a colonel in the Great War!” mused Captain Andrews in a tone which suggested that he had a presentiment that Colonel Best-Dunkley would not survive the coming push.  And, somehow—­though nobody ever anticipated for a moment that he would win the V.C.—­we all discussed the probability of his falling, and always thought that the odds were in favour of his falling.  And to be perfectly frank (my object in writing this book is to tell the truth), nobody regretted the probability!  If we had really known what kind of a man he was, if we had been able then to fathom beneath the forbidding externals, we might have felt very differently about it.  But it is not given to man to know the future or even to discern the heart of his most intimate acquaintance!  We only saw in him a man who was as unscrupulous as his prototype Napoleon in all matters which affected his own personal ambition, the petty tyrant of the parade ground, who could occasionally be very agreeable, but of whom all were afraid or suspicious, because none knew when his mood would change.  In a few days this man was going to give everybody who knew him the surprise of their lives.  Had he any presentiment