“I command the Imperial Guard Battalion of the old regiment, my son,” he replied.
“Guard which? They’ve been Fusiliers since Fontenoy. Don’t pull my leg, Boy.”
“I said Guard, not Guard-s. The I. G. Battalion of the Tail-twisters. Does that make it any clearer?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then come over to the mess and see for yourself. We aren’t a step from barracks. Keep on my right side. I’m—I’m a bit deaf on the near.”
We left the club together and crossed the street to a vast four-storied pile, which more resembled a Rowton lodging-house than a barrack. I could see no sentry at the gates.
“There ain’t any,” said the Boy lightly. He led me into a many-tabled restaurant full of civilians and grey-green uniforms. At one end of the room, on a slightly raised dais, stood a big table.
“Here we are! We usually lunch here and dine in mess by ourselves. These are our chaps—but what am I thinking of? You must know most of ’em. Devine’s my second in command now. There’s old Luttrell—remember him at Cherat?—Burgard, Verschoyle (you were at school with him), Harrison, Pigeon, and Kyd.”
With the exception of this last I knew them all, but I could not remember that they had all been Tynesiders.
“I’ve never seen this sort of place,” I said, looking round. “Half the men here are in plain clothes, and what are those women and children doing?”