Nobody mentioned Locksley; no one proposed a toast; but all the faces down the two long tables seemed conscious of a special occasion. . . .
A great white moon burned over the tin roofs of the hutments as the two mounted their horses; walked them slowly across the sleeping camp.
“I always said”—Bromley broke silence gravely—“that, except for Locksley, there was nothing wrong with the old Chalkshires. They’re a jolly fine crowd—now. And when we do go out. . . .”
“If we ever get out,” from Peter.
“They’ll give a good account of themselves. Curious, isn’t it, that if it hadn’t been for that fellow, we might still be with ‘B’ Company. Both Captains, perhaps.”
They dismounted; led their horses—groom following—down the hill.
“Did you realize when we transferred,” asked Peter, voicing a thought that had just arisen for the first time in his mind, “that one would be more comfortable, safer perhaps, in the Gunners?”
“No.”
“More did I. But all those chaps seemed to think so. I wonder if it’s true.”