my authorities were rushing troops across the Channel
every night as fast as the transports could take them, and often in the
silence of the sleep-time we had heard them marching up the hill from
the harbour to the camps on the downs. As we opened our own window, we
heard another window thrown open on the floor above us. We looked down
and saw in the darkness, faintly illuminated by the light from our room,
the upturned faces of the men.

"Bonjour, monseer," they shouted cheerfully, delighted to air on French
soil the colloquialisms they had picked up from that _vade mecum_ (price
one penny) of the British soldier: _French, and how to speak it_. It was
night, not day, but that didn't matter.

"Good-night," came a piping treble voice from the floor above us.

"Good-night"--"Good-night, old chap"--"Good-night, my son"--the men
shouted back as they glanced at the floor above us. Some of them gravely
saluted.

"It's Peter," said T----; "he'll be frightfully bucked up."

"Let's go up and see him," I said. We ascended the dark staircase--the
rest of the household were plunged in slumber--turned the handle of the
bedroom door, and could just make out in the darkness a little figure
in pyjamas, leaning precipitously out of the window.

"Peter, you'll catch cold," said his father as he struck a match. The
light illuminated a round, chubby face which glanced over its owner's
shoulder from the window.

"All right, Dad. I say," he exclaimed joyfully, "did you see? They
saluted me! Did _you_ see?" he said, turning to me.

"I did, Major Peter."

"You're kidding!"

"Not a bit of it," I said, saluting gravely. "They've given you
commissioned rank, and, the Army having spoken, I intend in the future
to address you as a field-officer. Of course your father will have to
salute you too, now."

This was quite another aspect of the matter, and commended itself to
Peter. "Right oh!" he said. And from that time forward I always
addressed him as Major Peter. So did his father, except when he was
ordering him to bed. At such times--there was a nightly contest on the
matter--the paternal authority could not afford to concede any
prerogatives, and Peter was gravely cashiered from the Army, only to be
reinstated without a stain on his character the next morning.

"Come up to the Flying-Ground to-morrow, will you?" said Peter. "I know
lots of officers up there. I'll introduce you," he added patronisingly.
Peter had been a bare fortnig