“‘Michigan,’” said Shafto, “is a favourite; poor old ‘Tipperary’ is down and out.”

Presently the force which had been relieved, muddy to the waist, but splendidly cheerful, splashed into the great courtyard.

“Irish,” explained Tremenheere; “magnificent fellows, born fighters.”

They watched the men as they fell out and scattered to their quarters in outhouses, barns and offices; and then Shafto and his friends made their way into the battered old chateau, and temporary Orderly room—­once a lady’s boudoir.  It still exhibited strips of artistic wall-paper, a cracked mirror, a beautiful Louis XIV. cabinet stacked with papers, a few rude chairs, a couple of wooden tables.

Presently a sergeant-major came in to report, a fine stalwart fellow with a heavy black moustache and, in spite of his muddy waders, an air of complete self-possession.  Having saluted and handed over his papers, his quick blue eyes rested on Shafto.  He started, saluted, and said: 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Shafto, sir, but I see you don’t know me.”

“Well, no, I can’t say that I do,” replied Shafto, casting his mind over the last eighteen months.

“Well, of course, sir, I’m entirely different to what ye may remember in Rangoon.”

“What?—­you don’t mean to say——­”

The late pongye nodded with emphasis..

“I’m now Sergeant-Major Ryan, in the second battalion of the old regiment.”

Then suddenly stepping back and lowering his voice, he added, “They think I’m me brother.  Shure, I never had one.  And how is yourself, sir?”

“All right; I’m a machine-gun officer attached to the Blanks.”

“And the young lady?”

“She’s a Red Cross nurse at Rouen—­I saw her three months ago.”

“When next you meet will you give her my humble respects and tell her I’ve not forgotten her invitation, an’ I’m coming to the wedding?”

“And no one will be more welcome; you have our address.  I’m told you’ve been in some heavy fighting?”

“Well, yes, sir, at Ypres we lost eighteen of our officers; oh, it was a cruel bad mix-up.  Still and all, the Boches were given their tea in a mug!  After our last charge ye’d see thim going every way—­like crows in a storm!  Our guns are grand; as for them aeroplanes they do all but speak; and the Tanks are wonders, God bless them!”

“You have been wounded?”

“Only just a cat’s scratch—­the German wire is mighty stiff; and there’s six-inch spikes.  Well, since we were last together, sir, you and I have been through a strange time and seen sights as we can’t talk about.  One thing is sure, we’ll worry through all right.”

“Oh, yes, we shall, and give the Boches something to think about.”

The sudden opening of a distant door released a roar of voices singing, “Take me back to Blighty!” a rousing demand which instantly recalled the sergeant-major to his duty.