§ 2
Next morning,—Stark pre-occupied, Peter rather sleepy, Purves and the Doctor swapping jokes with Horrocks the newly-joined veterinary officer (a horsy over-toothed young man in white breeches and enormous spurs)—the Headquarters breakfasted in sunshine at a trestle-table under the vine-leaves: and at half-past ten, rode out across the vast cobbled yard, through the red gates, right-handed towards Hinges, left-handed towards Béthune.
Behind them—Mr. Black prancing proudly on a thin chestnut mare, Lodden cursing as usual, Torrington drooping in his saddle, the men smoking at ease—came the horses and carts of the Headquarters Staff, the guns and ammunition waggons of Batteries A and B.
“This is hardly the conventional idea of going into action for the first time,” drawled Purves, trotting up beside Peter and the Colonel.
The Weasel jerked up red head from the map on his saddle-peak: “What did you expect, young man?” he asked crisply.
“Oh, I don’t know, sir. Gun-fire on the skyline, I suppose; and patrols riding forward to scout the way. . . .”
“Well, suppose you trot on; and see if the level-crossing’s blocked or not.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Can’t ride for toffee,” commented the Colonel, as his Orderly Officer clattered forward.
They rode on, through clean sunshine, past clean white houses, across the railway lines; emerged on the main road; swung left. Soon they could see the roofs of Béthune in front of them.