"I shouldn't think you had any spare hours to spare?" Beauvayse looked at the thin, tanned face with liking, and the keen pale eyes met his fairly.
"We haven't, Sir, but we manage some'ow."
"But what about your own duty?"
"I'm tykin' these men over, Sir." He indicated a solid family grocer, a clerk of the County Court, a pseudo-Swiss baker, and two Navy Reserve men reduced to the ranks for aggressive intemperance of the methylated-spirit kind, which, in the absence of other liquor, had prevailed among a certain class, until the intoxicating medium was confiscated by Government.
"Captain Thwaite 'as spared us from the Cemetery Works to relieve Corporal Brice an' 'is little lot at Angle VII. South Trenches. A telephone-message come from our Colonel to say Brice's men was bad with rheumatism and dysentery—but Brice is all right an' fit, Sir—and"—the pale eyes pleaded out of the brickdust-coloured face—"I'd like the charnce o' gettin' nearer to the enemy, Sir—an' that's the truth."
Beauvayse conceded. "Very well. I'll square things with your commanding officer as we go along, and explain matters to the Colonel per telephone from Maxim Outpost South. Come on there when you've handed over your men to Brice."
The pale eyes danced. "Thank you, Sir."
"An' I'll owe you a dollar whisky-peg for the good turn," muttered the perforated musician, as he handed over the cherished concertina to the volunteer, "till next Sunday that I see you in the stad."
"Righto!" said Corporal Keyse, accepting the sacred charge.
"Look here, though," came from Beauvayse, "there's one thing you must remember—what's your name?"