lay dozing until eight or
nine o'clock.

The men were quite happy in their barns, and would not begin to stir
before seven o'clock. Then they would hear in their sleep confused
sounds of tramping feet and shouts in the road outside.

The voice of the Quartermaster-Sergeant, distributing the rations, was
always the most insistent.

"'_Ere_, who's 'ad that there tea?"

"Fourty-two Smith took it down the street, Cooler Sawgint."

(When there is more than one man of the same name in a Battalion, the
last two figures of his regimental number, are, as it were, hyphenated
on to it. Brown's number was, say, 1965, so to prevent mistakes he was
always '65 Brown, to distinguish him from all the other Browns.)

"Where's the Orderly Cor'pril of No. 5 Platoon?"

"Comin', Cooler Sawgint!"

Then another voice raised in pained expostulation--

"'_Ere_, look at '_im_--a hackin' up the bacon. Who d'ju think's comin'
after you?"

"Go and see why there ain't no rum, Watkins!"

"There ain't '_arf_ enough sugar for all them!"

"'And over my firewood, will ye, or I'll ...!"

And so on, and so forth. It was the tune to which they finally awoke
every morning.

When it was impossible to maintain the pretence of being asleep any
longer, they would get up and shake themselves. They had passed the
stage of wanting to take clothes off. Their uprising in the morning was
as easy and simple as a dog's. Then, aided, perhaps, by one of their
servants, they would set about getting their breakfast ready in the
front room. The Subaltern discovered what a tremendous amount of trouble
is entailed in the preparation of even the simplest meals. Tables to be
moved, kettles to be filled, bread cut, jam and bully beef tins opened!
But each would have his own particular job, and they would soon be
seated round the dirty table, drinking their tea out of cups, or their
own mugs, and munching biscuits or bread.

Now that they were getting their rations each night with the regularity
of clockwork, they were beginning to appreciate properly the excellence
of their fare. "Seeing," as the Senior Subaltern would say, "that we are
on Active Service, I think the rations is an extraordinarily well
managed show."

The quality was good, and there was plenty of it. Personally, the
Subaltern never succeeded in getting on very good terms with the "bully
beef." He decided that it was "a bit too strong" for him; but the others
devoured large quantities, and seeme