R'yal Artillery, I'll grant you: not the sort of things you'd wear
on the right of the line. In fact, he told me 'tis an old pair he used
to carry when he went deer-stalkin'."

"They are hideous, Archelaus; not to mention that they don't fit you in
the least."

"They don't look so bad when I'm sitting down," said Archelaus, after a
moment's thought, and with an air of forced cheerfulness.

"If that's all you can say in extenuation!----"

"Well, 'twas kindly meant, any way; for the old ones were a
scandal--yes, be sure. What with sea-water and scrambling after gulls'
eggs, they was becoming a byword all over the Islands."

The Commandant winced, not for the first time in this conversation.

"Treacher makes his clothes last," he objected.

"Sam Treacher's a married man, and gets his bad luck different."

"But--but couldn't you ask Mrs. Treacher to take your old ones in hand
and put in a patch or two? That might carry you on for a few months,
and if you grudge the expense, I don't mind subscribing a shilling or
so."

Sergeant Archelaus shook his head. "What's the use?" he asked. "'Tis
but puttin' off the evil day. If Her Majesty won't send us clothes, we
must fall back on Providence. Besides which, I've taken the edge off
these things, and don't want to begin over again. Last Wednesday I wore
'em over to the Off Islands, to practise 'em on the sea-birds; and last
evening after dusk I walked through the town with 'em--yes, sir, right
out past the church and back again, my blood being up, and came home
and cut a square out of the old ones to wrap round the bung of the
water-butt."

The Commandant eyed the sergeant's legs in silence, choking down
half-a-dozen angry criticisms. No; he could not trust himself to speak;
and, after a minute, cramming his clenched fists into the pockets of
his frayed fatigue-jacket, he swung about on his heel and walked out of
the garden with angry strides.

Was the Lord Proprietor making sport of him?--purposely making him and
his garrison the laughing-stock of the Islands?

The Commandant walked up the road with a hot heart: past the Barracks
and beyond them to the down, where a ruined windmill overlooked the
sea. He wanted to be alone, and up here he could count upon solitude.
He wanted to walk off his ill-humour. But the ascent was steep, and he,
alas! no longer a young man; and at the windmill he was forced to stand
still and draw breath.

At his feet lay the Islands, bathed