“But it’s so damned unfair, sir.”
“I know that as well as you do, me lad. But we’ve got to think of the men. . . .”
A week later, Bareton and Fanshawe transferred to the Reserve Battalion. (Fanshawe died at Festhubert: Bareton still lives—all that the Hun prison-camps have left of him).
But matters did not end there. Locksley-Jones, confirmed in his position, sent for Peter privately. Peter, who was shooting on the miniature range at the time, finished his score with a “highest possible”; looked about for Bromley; couldn’t find him; strolled very slowly to the Orderly Room. Locksley, alone, went on writing for a clear minute. Then he said, “Oh, is that you, Jameson? I just wanted to have a private talk with you. You know, you’re a very clever fellow, Jameson. But you’re not clever enough to tackle me.”
Peter deliberately took off his cap, and sat down—at the Colonel’s table.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose I must take your word for that. Go on.”
Our Mr. Jameson was not an easy person to “discipline”—especially if one happened to have put oneself in the wrong by making the talk unofficial.
“Can’t we pull together, P.J.?” went on Locksley. “You know I can do you much more good than your pal Bromley. There’s your second star, for instance. . . .”
Peter couldn’t help admiring the audacity of the fellow. He wanted to consolidate his position; didn’t care how, so long as he achieved his purpose.
“And supposing I were to tell the C.O. what you’ve just suggested?”