Early that afternoon the stable sergeant of the Headquarters Troop coming out of divisional headquarters saw the general approaching in a car much too small for him. Beside him sat an aide, who drove wisely but not too well. On the rumble seat were a girl, and a youth in civilian clothes and a service hat. They were in deep, absorbing conversation.
The stable sergeant came stiffly to the salute, and remained at it, the general giving no evidence of seeing him and returning it. Then—the stable sergeant went pale under his tan, for the civilian emerging from the rear of the machine, and strangely but sufficiently clad, was one Sergeant Gray of the Headquarters Troop.
As if this had not been enough he watched the same Sergeant Gray assist to alight the young lady of yesterday, and it gave no peace to the stable sergeant’s turbulent soul to behold that young lady giving the general a patronising pat and then a kiss.
“Great Scott!” said the stable sergeant feebly.
But there was more to come, for Sergeant Gray had spied his enemy and was minded to have official confirmation of a certain fact. Before the stable sergeant’s incredulous eyes he beheld Gray, of the undergarments, gauze, et cetera, advance to the general and salute, and then remark in a very distinct tone:
“It was very kind of you, sir, to ask me to breakfast.”
The general looked about under his gray eyebrows and perceived a situation.
“Not at all,” he replied in an equally distinct voice. “Glad you liked my bran muffins.”
The stable sergeant, who was carrying a saddle, dropped it. Had he not been stooping he would have observed something very like a wink on the most military countenance in America. It was directed at Tommy.
“Good-by, Sergeant Gray,” said the pretty girl, holding out her hand. “I—I think you are the bravest person! And you will write, won’t you?”