“Yes, sir,” from Pettigrew. “Shoreham, Captain Torrington said.”
“Correct, Pettigrew. And then I shall start gingering you all up a bit. Especially ‘B’ Battery.” The Colonel turned to Merrilees. “You’re going to ‘C,’ young man. Did Colonel Brasenose teach you how to ride?”
“I—I think so, sir,” said Merrilees shyly.
“We never ‘think’ in the 4th Brigade, do we Hutchinson?” This, a reminder of the horsy one’s last attempt at manoeuvring a battery, drew a twinkle from Pettigrew.
“No, sir.”
Charlie Straker arrived: tall; clean-shaven, curly-headed, with big hands and a pronounced stutter. A promoted ranker, once in Stark’s own battery, he had recently come home to take up his commission.
“G-good evening, sir.”
“Evening, Straker,”—Stark had come to the Mess with one of his usual definite purposes in mind—“I’m going to take you round to the Jamesons’. There’s an old friend of yours with them, and very anxious to see you.”
“Who, sir?”
“Jacky Baynet”—a less tactful man might have said “Captain Baynet”—“he’s home on leave. You remember him, of course.”