A long train backed slowly across the road. The column halted. The train went on; likewise the column. Now they were in the outskirts of the town.
Down the untidy street, trotting slowly towards them over the greasy pavé, came a young Staff officer, very gorgeous of boot and tab, rifled groom trotting behind him: a Staff officer who saluted the Weasel with a fine flourish, and said:
“Excuse me, sir, but this is the fourth Southdown Brigade, isn’t it?”
“It is. Half of it anyway. What do you want with it?”
“Can I speak to your Adjutant, sir?”
“Certainly. Speak to the whole damn column if you like. Here, Mr. Black, pass down the word for the Adjutant.”
“Colonel wants the Adjutant. Colonel wants the Adjutant.” The words went dwindling down the line.
A minute or two later our Mr. Jameson clattered up on Little Willie, looked at the face under the black-peaked hat, and said, “Good God, it’s Francis. Where on earth did you spring from?”
Peter introduced his cousin, a little gaunter, a little browner, but immaculate as ever, to the Colonel. The three rode on, talking together. Soldiers and rare civilians stared incuriously at them from the narrow pavements; lorries rumbled by; an occasional dispatch-rider, phutting past, disturbed the horses.
“How did you find me so quickly?” asked Peter, preliminary greetings over.