Grand rounds came tramping down the trench and the men about the fire rose up and stood to attention.
‘What is this?’ asked De Blacquaire. ‘Who’s in charge here?’
‘I am, sir,’ Polson answered, saluting.
‘What’s the meaning of this blaze here? Can’t you see that you’re drawing the enemy’s fire? Report yourself to me at noon to-morrow. Scatter that stuff, and trample it out.’
A foot was thrust into the embers, and they flared up suddenly. The Major recognised his enemy, and looked from his eyes to the stripes upon the left sleeve of his ragged overcoat.
‘Is that your own coat?’ he asked. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sergeant are you? I’ll break you for this to-morrow.’
‘That you, old chap?’ drawled Volnay from his seat on the bread-box. ‘Said you were dead. We’ve got no end of a find here. Whole pig. If you’ll let me know where to find you, I’ve bagged a ham, and I’ll invite myself to dine with you, and bring my own rations with me.’
‘Thaanks,’ said De Blacquaire. ‘Don’t trouble. I shall find it my duty to report this scene of riot and disorder. Forward. March.’
Grand rounds went by, and the scattered fire faded.