Behold him this morning dismounting from his horse in the place of St. Grégoire. Around him are grouped his satellites—the Quartermaster-Sergeant, four Company Sergeants, some odd orderlies, and a forlorn little man in a neat drab uniform with light blue facings,—the regimental interpreter. The party have descended, with the delicate care of those who essay to perform acrobatic feats in kilts, from bicycles—serviceable but appallingly heavy machines of Government manufacture, the property of the "Buzzers," but commandeered for the occasion. The Quartermaster-Sergeant, who is not accustomed to strenuous exercise, mops his brow and glances expectantly round the place. His eye comes gently to rest upon a small but hospitable-looking estaminet.
Lieutenant Cockerell examines his wrist-watch.
"Half-past ten!" he announces. "Quartermaster-Sergeant!"
"Sirr!" The Quartermaster-Sergeant unglues his longing gaze from the estaminet and comes woodenly to attention.
"I am going to see the Town Major about a billeting area. I will meet you and the party here in twenty minutes."
Master Cockerell trots off on his mud-splashed steed, followed by the respectful and appreciative salutes of his followers—appreciative, because a less considerate officer would have taken the whole party direct to the Town Major's office and kept them standing in the street, wasting moments which might have been better employed elsewhere, until it was time to proceed with the morning's work.
* * * * *
"How strong are you?" inquired the Town Major.
Cockerell told him. The Town Major whistled.
"That all? Been doing some job of work, haven't you?"