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Rumbald had left only a fortnight previously; and Rawley drew up a chair and covertly appraised this new-comer, who was to share that close intimacy that war had imposed upon them.
    He was a big man, probably in the early thirties, though the girth of his waist, which compelled him to buckle his Sam Browne in the last hole, made him appear almost middle-aged. He had the comfortable, well-fed air of a man who finds much in life that is agreeable, and does not spoil his enjoyment of it by vain yearnings for the unattainable. His pink and slightly fleshy face suggested much soap and warm water, and the dark hairs imparted to the well-shaven cheeks a faint, luminous blue gleam. There were little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and Rawley pictured him in civil life wearing a tight blue suit and a bowler hat on the back of his head. He lounged in the old horsehair armchair, his head sunk in his massive shoulders, a glass of whisky resting on his crossed knees, and his great buttocks pressing the springs flat; and Rawley, remembering his own shyness as a newcomer to the mess, envied this man for his easy assurance.
    He had a humorous blunt way of talking about men and things, and he had, it appeared, a great number of acquaintances in London and scattered up and down England, to whom he referred bewilderingly as old George Kemp, young Tom Conolly, Sam Tatam’s missus, or that little armful Patsy Green. Evidently he was very popular in this wide circle of acquaintances, though it did not appear to which particular strata of society they belonged.
    He had managed to enjoy life, even in Havre where, it appeared, reinforcement officers were hampered by endless ridiculous regulations. But he had not allowed these to cramp his optimism or opportunism. Evidently he was a very good hand at driving a coach and four through an Act of Parliament, or any other troublesome regulation. He had a breezy, persuasive, “Come-old-fellow,-but-of-course-these-ridiculous-regulations-don’t-apply- to-me ” manner that had procured him sugar in a land of saccharine, meat without a ration card, and drinks in public-houses after hours. A useful fellow to send to brigade or division when they and the battery did not see eye to eye.

CHAPTER IV
    The battery was enjoying its rest in the village after its long and arduous spell in the Line. In the manner of British troops the world over it had made itself at home within ten minutes of the guns being parked beneath the trees of the square. Within an hour it was known throughout the battery which farm sold the cheapest eggs and at which estaminet the beer was least insipid, and more than one gunner had taken his place in a French kitchen, with the family, to drink a cup of the coffee that seemed to be ready at any hour.
    Two guns had gone to ordnance for repairs, and apart from the routine exercise, stables, and feeds that are inseparable from a horse unit, duties were light. And the weather, as if in expiation of its recent vagaries, was excellent. The dusty white surface of the village street was scolloped with the clear-cut shadows of gables and chimneys. The wood that climbed the slope behind the village street looked cool and inviting, and beyond the houses the heat shimmered above the swelling slopes of ripening corn that undulated to the hazy distance, unbroken by hedge or tree except for an occasional wood upon a hill-top, and in the low ground the winding green ribbon of trees that marked the road.
    A football match had been arranged between the battery and the motor transport workshop that was quartered at the cross-roads, and Rawley played in his old school position at right half and fed Piddock, who made avery fast outside right. Rumbald, on the touch-line, proved to be an enthusiastic supporter of his new unit, and his periodic mighty bellow of “Come on, B Battery,” sent the birds eddying above the poplars.
    He showed a liking for Rawley’s company, and Rawley was a