The huge red bulk of the Asylum turned, as they approached, to a gutted skeleton of a building; and beyond, the houses which they passed leered at them in drunken burlesque, shameless. Here, a made bed lurched half out of a shattered window; there, shells had ripped away the whole front of a dwelling, exposing—as a lewd woman exposes herself—all the petty secrets of what had once been a home.
Left they swung, past the chipped and bulging Water Tower, past more ruins of villadom, into a bare tree-lined road; right again.
“Colonel doesn’t like the horses to come further than this by daylight, sir” warned Jelks.
“Very well.” Peter dismounted. “Which way do I go?”
“Just up to that bridge, sir. Then, left along the canal bank. You’ll see the Lock-House just in front of you.” . . .
Peter found the Weasel, reading his Times by the light of their one oil lamp (it was just lunch-time) in a low, timber-shored dug-out which one approached down greasy steps, along duck-boards laid just above the water-level of a muddy creek.
“Hallo,” said the Weasel. “So you’ve turned up at last, have you? Jolly place this. What?”
“A trifle cramped, sir,” laughed Peter; and began to explain his overdueness.
“Oh, that’s all right,” chaffed Stark; “we’ll take the three days off your next leave. I’m glad you’re back though. Purves, as acting Adjutant, does not shine. Morency’s at the waggon-lines. I’ve had to do most of the office-work myself. He’s out on the wires now. We’re commanding a ‘Group.’ If you get that map down, I’ll show you the battery-positions.”
He indicated them.