"Aye sir, they've been a-standing in their stalls saddled and bridled a hour or more."
"Have they, Zeb?"
"Aye sir, a-waiting for your honour to give the word to march."
"Why then Zeb," said the Major rising and taking the Ramillie coat over his arm, "you may unsaddle 'em, my honour has decided—not to march."
"Very good, sir!" The Sergeant blinked, saluted and wheeled about.
"Sergeant Zebedee!" The Sergeant wheeled back again.
"Sir?"
"I think—ha—I rather fancy I called you a damned obstinate fellow as 'twere and er—so forth."
"You did so, sir. Likewise 'ass' and 'dolt.'"
"Why if I said 'em, I meant 'em, Zebedee and——" The Major strode forward impulsively and grasped Sergeant Zebedee's hand. "'Twas true Zeb, 'twas true every word, so you are, but—God bless thee for't, Zeb!" Saying which the Major went upstairs to his chamber bearing the Ramillie coat much as if it had been some sacred relic rather than the rumpled, unlovely thing it was.