In front, beside the chastened Mr. Smee, sat the Major and Master Cockerell. The latter had just partaken of his share of refreshment, and was now endeavouring, with lifeless fingers, to light a cigarette.
The Major scrutinised his guest intently. Then he stripped off his
British Warm coat—incidentally revealing the fact that he wore
upon his tunic the ribbons of both South African Medals and the
Distinguished Service Order—and threw it round Cockerell's shoulders.
"I'm sorry, boy!" he said. "I never noticed. You are chilled to the bone. Button this round you."
Cockerell made a feeble protest, but was cut short.
"Nonsense! There's no sense in taking risks after you've done your job."
Cockerell assented, a little sleepily. His allowance of rum was bringing its usual vulgar but comforting influence to bear upon an exhausted system.
"I see you have been wounded, sir," he observed, noting with a little surprise two gold stripes upon his host's left sleeve—the sleeve of a "non-combatant."
"Yes," said the Major. "I got the first one at Le Gateau. He was only a little fellow; but the second, which arrived at the Second Show at Ypres, gave me such a stiff leg that I am only an old crock now. I was second-in-command of an Infantry Battalion in those days. In these, I am only a peripatetic Lipton. However, I am lucky to be here at all: I've had twenty-seven years' service. How old are you?"
"Twenty," replied Cockerell. He was too tired to feel as ashamed as he usually did at having to confess to the tenderness of his years.
The Major nodded thoughtfully.