“Leave? No such luck. I’m commanding one of these Kitchener Brigades.” He gave the number. “Southdown Division, I believe they call it.”
“Then we are going to have some Artillery,” put in Peter. “I was told at the War Office, when I applied for my commission that there wasn’t going to be any Artillery with the new Armies.”
“Who told you that fairy-tale?” said Stark.
“A Colonel Thompson.”
“Oh, Cocky Thompson. Just like him. Pulling your leg, of course. So you joined the Infanteers, thinking the war would be done before you could get your kit. And you”—he turned to Bromley—“you’re a Cavalryman if ever I saw one!”
Bromley explained himself: the Colonel, who never put questions without a reason, following sharply.
“Like the Chalkshires?” he queried suddenly: and gathered, from the tone of the answer, all he wanted to know. The Weasel, in addition to having one of the best heads for strong liquor in the Gunners, was no mean judge of a man. Also, the “fourth Southdown Brigade” of the R.F.A.[[2]] needed officers badly. He let his wife change the conversation.
“And how does Pat like you’re being a soldier?” she said to Peter. “Fancy her being only a subaltern’s ‘poor thing,’ and me a ‘Colonel’s lady’! Does she come down here often?”
“She’s coming down for Christmas.”
Bromley and the Weasel began to talk horse; the dinner went on. . . .