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‘And then,’ Eames went on, ‘then Wontner said we’d done several pounds’ worth of damage to his furniture.’

‘Oh,’ said The Infant, ‘he’s that kind of man, is he? Does he brush his teeth?’

‘Oh yes, he’s quite clean all over!’ said Trivett; ‘but his father’s a wealthy barrister.’

‘Solicitor,’ Eames corrected, ‘and so this Mister Wontner is out for our blood. He’s going to make a first-class row about it–appeal to the War Office–court of inquiry–spicy bits in the papers, and songs in the music-halls. He told us so.’

‘That’s the sort of chap he is,’ said Trivett. ‘And that means old Dhurrah-bags, our Colonel, ‘ll be put on half-pay, same as that case in the Scarifungers’ Mess; and our Adjutant’ll have to exchange, like it was with that fellow in the 73rd Dragoons, and there’ll be misery all round. He means making it too hot for us, and his papa’ll back him.’

‘Yes, that’s all very fine,’ said The Infant; ‘but I left the Service about the time you were born, Bobby. What’s it got to do with me?’

‘Father told me I was always to go to you when I was in trouble, and you’ve been awfully good to me since he …’

‘Better stay to dinner.’ The Infant mopped his forehead.

‘Thank you very much, but the fact is–‘ Trivett halted.

‘This afternoon, about four, to be exact–‘ Eames broke in.

‘We went over to Wontner’s quarters to talk things over. The row only happened last night, and we found him writing letters as hard as he could to his father–getting up his case for the War Office, you know. He read us some of ’em, but I’m not a good judge of style. We tried to ride him off quietly–apologies and so forth–but it was the milk-punch and mayonnaise that defeated us.’

‘Yes, he wasn’t taking anything except pure revenge,’ said Eames.

‘He said he’d make an example of the regiment, and he was particularly glad that he’d landed our Colonel. He told us so. Old Dhurrah-bags don’t sympathise with Wontner’s tactical lectures. He says Wontner ought to learn manners first, but we thought–‘ Trivett turned to Eames, who was less a son of the house than himself, Eames’s father being still alive.

‘Then,’ Eames went on, ‘he became rather noisome, and we thought we might as well impound the correspondence’–he wrinkled his swelled left eye–‘and after that, we got him to take a seat in my car.’

‘He was in a sack, you know,’ Trivett explained. ‘He wouldn’t go any other way. But we didn’t hurt him.’

‘Oh no! His head’s sticking out quite clear, and’–Eames rushed the fence–‘we’ve put him in your garage–er pendente lite.’

‘My garage!’ Infant’s voice nearly broke with horror.

‘Well, father always told me if I was in trouble, Uncle George–‘

Bobby’s sentence died away as The Infant collapsed on a divan and said no more than, ‘Your commissions!’ There was a long, long silence.

‘What price your latter-day lime-juice subaltern?’ I whispered to Stalky behind my hand. His nostrils expanded, and he drummed on the edge of the Japanese jar with his knuckles.

‘Confound your father, Bobby!’ The Infant groaned. ‘Raggin’s a criminal offence these days. It isn’t as if–‘

‘Come on,’ said Stalky. ‘That was my old Line battalion in Egypt. They nearly slung old Dhurrah-bags and me out of the Service in ’85 for ragging.’ He descended the stairs and The Infant rolled appealing eyes at him.

‘I heard what you youngsters have confessed,’ he began; and in his orderly-room voice, which is almost as musical as his singing one, he tongue-lashed those lads in such sort as was a privilege and a revelation to listen to. Till then they had known him almost as a relative–we were all brevet, deputy, or acting uncles to The Infant’s friends’ brood–a sympathetic elder brother, sound on finance. They had never met Colonel A.L. Corkran in the Chair of Justice. And while he flayed and rent and blistered, and wiped the floor with them, and while they looked for hiding-places and found none on that floor, I remembered (1) the up-ending of ‘Dolly’ Macshane at Dalhousie, which came perilously near a court-martial on Second-Lieutenant Corkran; (2) the burning of Captain Parmilee’s mosquito-curtains on a hot Indian dawn, when the captain slept in his garden, and Lieutenant Corkran, smoking, rode by after a successful whist night at the club; (3) the introduction of an ekka pony, with ekka attached, into a brother captain’s tent on a frosty night in Peshawur, and the removal of tent, pole, cot, and captain all wrapped in chilly canvas; (4) the bath that was given to Elliot-Hacker on his own verandah–his lady-love saw it and broke off the engagement, which was what the Mess intended, she being an Eurasian–and the powdering all over of Elliot-Hacker with flour and turmeric from the bazaar.