"And if I've anything to say about it, you'll come out with the draft on Wednesday. Bob will work that for you. Remember Bob, of course? Look here, I'm waiting for him now. Let's go in here and have some grub. He's bound to turn up in a few minutes"; and linking his arm in that of his old schoolfellow, they passed into the restaurant together.
"The Red Tulips" was filling up rapidly, but they secured a little table, and turned down a chair for Bob. It was a gay place, all gilt and glitter, with a string band on one side of the long hall, and at hundreds of other little tables well-dressed people were lunching, a goodly sprinkling of officers in uniform among them.
At the next table to their own was a stout Major, whom Dennis instantly identified as a "dug-out."
His face was flushed and he was talking loudly, names of battalions flowing glibly from his well-oiled tongue. His companions were an over-dressed lady and a young "nut" who ought to have been in uniform.
"There's no doubt about it," said the Major. "My battalion—the Sloggers, you know—absolutely take the biscuit. The —th are a very decent crush, and so are the —th and the —th. They make up our brigade, you know. I shall just get back in time, and as soon as I arrive we have orders to leave Barbillier to support Dashwood's Brigade, which has been awfully cut up in this last business."
"Confound that old gasbag!" muttered Dennis, leaning across the table to Wetherby. "That's the way information gets about—he's no right to be talking like that."
"Certainly not," replied Wetherby, "but I think they're going now. That waitress girl is making out the bill—a pretty long one, too—she's been writing hard for the last five minutes."
"You see, what really happened was this," continued the red-faced Major, "Dashwood's Brigade was at ——"
"You'll excuse me, sir," said a voice, "but I happen to be in Dashwood's Brigade, and we're not at all anxious that our movements should be given broadcast in a place like this."
"Eh, what!" stuttered the field officer, looking at the single star that adorned Dennis's cuff, and waxing furious. "What the dickens is the service coming to? Do you know who I am, sir?" And he fixed his eyeglass into the frown that was intended to slay this young whippersnapper who presumed to dictate to a man with a crown on his shoulder.