Sergeant McGillicuddy, being himself under Mrs. McGillicuddy’s iron rule, did not approve of Kettle’s breach of discipline and hatched a scheme to catch him.  With a countenance as inscrutable as the Sphinx, he stepped to the telephone booth, shut the door carefully, and held a short conversation over the wire with Mrs. McGillicuddy.  When the Sergeant came out of the telephone booth his face was not inscrutable but expressed pure human joy and triumph.

“It’s Missis McGillicuddy as ’ll do for ye,” said the Sergeant with a grin, going up to Kettle, holding the delighted After-Clap in his arms.

“Go ’long, man,” answered Kettle, “Mrs. McGillicuddy ain’t my boss.  She’s yourn.”

This language, uttered toward a man with chevrons and three stripes on his sleeve, naturally incensed the Sergeant.  He had learned, however, in twenty years of warfare with Kettle, that it was very hard to get him punished.

“The naygur never has found out that orders is orders,” remarked the Sergeant to the lookers on.  “But Missis McGillicuddy can wallop him with one hand tied behind her back, and she’ll do it, too, when she finds out about the kiddie bein’ out this time of night.”

This was no idle threat.  Fifteen minutes later, when Kettle and the After-Clap were at the height of their enjoyment, Mrs. McGillicuddy, with only a shawl over her head, in the keen December night, was seen stalking across the plaza and toward the group of men and horses outside the drill ball; the riders had trooped into the waiting-room for coffee and sandwiches before the ride began.  The troopers, who knew and admired Mrs. McGillicuddy, made way for her respectfully as she swooped down on Kettle, to his complete surprise.

“Solomon!” shouted Mrs. McGillicuddy.

Whenever Mrs. McGillicuddy used Kettle’s baptismal name it meant the same thing as when Colonel Fortescue called Mrs. Fortescue “Elizabeth,”—­there was trouble brewing.

“And it’s you,” continued Mrs. McGillicuddy, in a voice like a bassoon in a rage, “as the Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue trusted their innocent lamb, and when they are peacefully watchin’ the show you take this pore baby out of his warm bed and brings him out here to catch his death of cold, and Patrick McGillicuddy, you’ll laugh on the wrong side of your face when I get you home, and the Colonel shall know this, if my name is Araminta McGillicuddy.”

With that Mrs. McGillicuddy tore the After-Clap from Kettle’s arms.  Like Kettle and McGillicuddy and the admiring crowd of troopers, the baby knew enough to maintain silence when Mrs. McGillicuddy had the floor.

“Right ’bout face and march,” screamed Mrs. McGillicuddy to Kettle, who meekly obeyed her, “and McGillicuddy ’ll hear from me when he comes home to-night!”

Mrs. McGillicuddy then, with Kettle walking in advance, his head hanging down, followed with the After-Clap and took the way to the C. O.’s quarters, where the baby, much to his disappointment, was again laid in his crib and Kettle was promised terrors to come like those of the Day of Judgment.