"Right-o! You are to march them to 'A' Company billets. I'll show you the way. My name's Cockerell. Your train is late. What time did you leave the Base?"
"Indeed," replied Angus meekly, "I am not quite sure. We had barely landed when they told me the train would start at seventeen-forty. What time would that be—sir?"
"About a quarter to ten: more likely about midnight! Well, get your bunch on to the road, and—Hallo, what's the matter? Let go!"
The new officer was gripping him excitedly by the arm, and as the new officer stood six-foot-four and was brawny in proportion, Master Cockerell's appeal was uttered in a tone of unusual sincerity.
"Look!" cried Angus excitedly. "The dogs, the dogs!"
A small cart was passing swiftly by, towed by two sturdy hounds of unknown degree. They were pulling with the feverish enthusiasm which distinguishes the Dog in the service of Man, and were being urged to further efforts by a small hatless girl carrying the inevitable large umbrella.
"All right!" explained Cockerell curtly. "Custom of the country, and all that."
The impulsive Angus apologised; and the draft, having been safely manoeuvred on to the road, formed fours and set out upon its march.
"Are the Battalion in the trenches at present, sir?" inquired Angus.
"No. Rest-billets two miles from here. About time, too! You'll get lots of work to do, though."