This exhausted the possibilities of the first street, and the party debouched into the second, which was long and straggling, and composed entirely of small houses.
"Now for a bit of the retail business!" said Master Cockerell resignedly. "Sergeant M'Nab, what is the strength of 'C' Company?"
"One hunner and thairty-fower other ranks, sirr," announced Sergeant
M'Nab, consulting a much-thumbed roll-book.
"We shall have to put them in twos and threes all down the street," said Cockerell. "Come on; the longer we look at it the less we shall like it. Interpreter!"
The forlorn little man, already described, trotted up, and saluted with open hand, French fashion. His name was Baptiste Bombominet ("or words to that effect," as the Adjutant put it), and may have been so inscribed upon the regimental roll; but throughout the rank and file Baptiste was affectionately known by the generic title of "Alphonso." The previous seven years had been spent by him in the congenial and blameless atmosphere of a Ladies' Tailor's in the west end of London, where he enjoyed the status and emoluments of chief cutter. Now, called back to his native land by the voice of patriotic obligation, he found himself selected, by virtue of a residence of seven years in England, to act as official interpreter between a Scottish Regiment which could not speak English, and Flemish peasants who could not speak French. No wonder that his pathetic brown eyes always appeared full of tears. However, he followed Cockerell down the street, and meekly embarked upon a contest with the lady Inhabitants thereof, in which he was hopelessly outmatched from the start.
At the first door a dame of massive proportions, but keen business instincts, announced her total inability to accommodate soldats, but explained that she would be pleased to entertain officiers to any number. This is a common gambit. Twenty British privates in your grenier, though extraordinarily well-behaved as a class, make a good deal of noise, buy little, and leave mud everywhere. On the other hand, two or three officers give no trouble, and can be relied upon to consume and pay for unlimited omelettes and bowls of coffee.
That seasoned vessel, Lieutenant Cockerell, turned promptly to the
Sergeant and Corporal of "C" Company.
"Sergeant M'Nab," he said, "you and Corporal Downie will billet here."
He introduced hostess and guests by an expressive wave of the hand.
But shrewd Madame was not to be bluffed.
"Pas de sergents, Monsieur le Capitaine!" she exclaimed. "Officiers!"
"Ils sont officiers—sous-officiers," explained Cockerell, rather ingeniously, and moved off down the street.