ent with a twinkle of the eye.

'The same old Quixote, eh, George? De Blacquaire's right, of
course--absolutely right. And as for you, my boy, you haven't got a
leg to stand on. Of course you're going to join forces with your fellow
sufferer, and it's quite monstrous to suggest that the money should come
out of the pocket of an innocent man. If the case were anybody's but
your own you'd look at it like a sensible man. And if you were advising
me, you would tell me precisely what I'm telling you. Here, where's that
rascal of mine?' He opened the door and shouted, and in came a bronzed
dragoon in civilian costume. 'Get a bottle of champagne and bring
glasses. I've been longing for an excuse for self-indulgence all the
morning, and I'm much obliged to you for giving it.'

'I mustn't join you,' said the General.

'Oh, by gad,' said the Colonel, 'but you must and you shall. I'm
expecting to get my marching orders any hour, and those chaps mean to
fight, mind you, and it's an open problem as to whether old Bob Stacey
will come back again. Come on, George! You're not going to shirk a last
liquor with a comrade of forty years' standing!'

The General yielded, the wine was served, De Blacquaire at the Colonel's
command emptied his glass and withdrew, leaving the old friends
together. The General seized the moment to speak a word for Polson. He
told the lad's story, and the Colonel nodded his white head with curt
approval.

'Is he a smart fellow?' he asked.

'Highly intelligent,' the General answered. 'Took his B.A. at Oxford,
first-rate man across country, excellent shot. Would have had his
commission this week if his father hadn't turned out a rascal. Throws
up everything like a lad of honour as he is, and takes the Queen's
shilling.'

'That's all right,' said the Colonel. 'Leave him to me. I'll shepherd
him.'

CHAPTER VII

General Boswell's coachman was a Scot; a grim, taciturn,
brickdust-coloured fellow, who had been in his present service for a
quarter of a century. He had been bred amongst horses from his boyhood,
for his father had been a horsebreaker, and when he had run away from
home and enlisted, he had satisfied ambition by becoming a driver of
artillery. Then he had been wounded, and had turned batman for awhile.
He had gone to the General as valet, but his stable love had broken
out again, and he had gravitated by force of nature to the place of
coachman. Polson's mind did not go back to a time whe