"Nice time o' day to come in, I don't think," he observed severely. "Overstayed yer week-end leave, I s'pose. Where's your passes?"
"We 'aven't got no passes, sergeant. We've...."
"Names, please," interrupted the catechist. "1287 'Iggins A. an' 2312 Grant W. Which comp'ny?"
"'C' Comp'ny, 5th M.F., B.E.F."
"Yes, yes," said the sergeant with heavy sarcasm. "You can say yer alphabet arterwards. An' I don't want yer past 'istory, neither. This ain't the B.E.F. an' I want to know which comp'ny you belong to 'ere."
"We dunno, sergeant. We been transferred from the B.E.F. an' we're just reportin'."
"What, at this time o' day, an' without any kit? All right, you needn't trouble to tell me any more. You tell it all to the C.O. when 'e sees you. 'E'll 'arf skin yer, I expect, for rollin' in at this time, because the last train for 'ere gets in at eight o'clock in the evening."
Alf and Bill sat in the guard-room, their first elation rather dashed. Once more things were turning out unexpectedly difficult. They were indeed back in Blighty, but were to be half-skinned as a result. If on top of this Eustace managed to make any mistake in the transfer, they might reasonably expect to be completely flayed by the colonel, who had the reputation (which had reached the brigade in France by means of the drafts he sent out to it) of being a fire-eater. Bill began to regret bitterly his impulsiveness in leaving the technical details of his scheme to Eustace; but he realized that it was now too late to do anything. He and Alf would be kept under strict surveillance until the time of their interview with the C.O., and there would be no possible chance of summoning Eustace and ascertaining just what he had done.
They decided to do nothing, and to hope for the best. Even a guard-room in Blighty seemed to them at that moment preferable to their billet in France.
Soon after breakfast the hour for the inquisition arrived and the two friends found themselves side by side "on the mat" before the great man, who was physically a very little man. Colonel Watts was a "dug-out." Some time before the war broke out he had retired from a very long and incredibly undistinguished military career with the rank of major, and had devoted himself to bullying his meek wife and generally making her life a misery. When the war began the gallant major, much to Mrs. Watts' relief, applied for and obtained command of a New Army battalion. Unfortunately, however, he managed to quarrel so violently with all his immediate superiors and most of his colleagues that the divisional general refused to take him to the front. Shortly before the division sailed for France the little man returned raging to Tunbridge Wells, discharged all his wife's servants, poisoned her dog, and proceeded to vent all his accumulated spleen on the poor lady herself. Eventually, only just in time to save Mrs. Watts' sanity, he was offered the command of the Territorial reserve battalion of the Middlesex Fusiliers, a post which he had held ever since.