"Must it be a Line regiment, sir?"
"Unless you have special qualifications for any other branch of the Service."
"I would like to try for the Tank Section, sir."
The colonel raised his bushy eyebrows.
"Dash it all!" he ejaculated. "You aim high, young man. However, since you gained distinction in the Tank affair, perhaps your wishes will be gratified. Meanwhile, if you take my advice you'll keep this matter strictly to yourself as far as your comrades are concerned."
The colonel nodded dismissal. Ralph saluted and left the presence of the commanding officer.
He felt as if he were treading on air. He could hardly realize his good fortune. It seemed like a dream that would be rudely dispelled with the dawn. He wanted to pinch himself to be certain that he was really awake.
On his way back to his billet he encountered Private Anderson looking smarter than he had ever been known before. Ginger's boots shone brightly, despite the "dubbin" under the polish. His buttons, a few hours previously dull and tarnished by the clammy air of the trenches and the chemical effect of the bursting shells, now glittered resplendent in the sunshine. His reddish moustache had been brushed and coaxed into a certain state of subservience, although subduing the stubbly bristles had taken the private almost an hour of hard work. His cap was tilted on the back of his head revealing a well-oiled and studiously arranged "quiff" of fiery-tinted hair.
"Wot cheer, mate!" exclaimed George. "Where 'ave you been?"
"Orderly-room," replied Ralph.