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By Root 5796 0

in its simplicity. The “men from the trenches” should be invited to become members. The secretary had been dispatched there and then, on the spot, to deliver this generous invitation...But he had returned almost immediately with the news that they had declined. Once more they had listened politely while he talked about members’ fees, rules, rights and obligations and then said, “No thanks.” It was preposterous, everyone agreed that it was. All the same, the objection to dealing harshly with them, the one about risking their lives to maintain law and order (as well as the other one), remained and one could not simply ignore it. In the end, after much discussion, a notice had been posted on the bulletin board announcing that all senior personnel of the R.I.C. had been declared honorary members for the duration of the emergency (one couldn’t, of course, open the doors to a horde of other ranks, splendid fellows though some of them no doubt were). The Major, who thought the secretary a pompous ass, had enjoyed this affair. But now that he saw the men sitting there, cold and calm, he had to admit that he would not like to have been the person with the job of ordering them to leave.

“Back again like a bad penny,” O’Neill was saying with chilling heartiness. “Want you to meet an old pal, Major Archer. Now I wonder if I can get this straight...Captain Bolton, Lieutenants...let me see, Pike, Berry, and Foster-Smith. How’s that for a memory, eh?”

“Sergeants now, old boy,” said Foster-Smith, whose prominent teeth and thinning hair gave him a foolish appearance; he was very slight, his breeches hung in folds from thighs that were no thicker than wine-bottles.

It was Pike whose head the Major had seen appearing through the broken window at the Majestic; he looked a jolly fellow, but the eyes above his plump blue cheeks showed a disturbing intelligence and his frequent laughter seemed perfunctory. Berry was younger than the others; his sandy hair was cut so short that it stood up like the bristles of a hairbrush.

“Bit of a comedown,” he was saying. “Not so much hobnobbing with officers now that we’ve joined the unwashed O.R.” He glanced slyly at the Major. Everyone laughed except Captain Bolton, who merely smiled faintly. O’Neill, red with mirth, laughed louder than anyone.

Captain Bolton’s eyes moved from one or other of the lieutenants to the Major in a detached, incurious way. There was something about his powerful jaw that was familiar to the Major; it was a moment before he realized what it was. These were the strong regular features (a face without any particular identity) which he had observed that sculptors frequently chose for war memorials. He could easily imagine Bolton frozen in bronze into some heroic posture. Put a helmet on his head, a bronze flag in his hand, drape a few dying bronze comrades around his knees...But Captain Bolton was very much alive and proved it by saying to the barman in a mild tone:

“Another round quick sharp, Paddy, you dirty Shinner, and put it on our account...”

“And send it to the King,” added Pike. “If he won’t pay send it to the Lord of Wipers.”

O’Neill explained the reason for introducing the Major to them: namely, the fact that they were neighbours. The Major too lived under Edward Spencer’s roof at the Majestic.

“Spencer has two lovely daughters,” Foster-Smith said, showing no interest in O’Neill’s information.

“I’ve got a lovely daughter too,” offered O’Neill winking broadly. “Want to see her picture?” And after a moment’s fumbling he produced a tattered photograph of Viola. While “the men from the trenches” were studying it O’Neill winked again, this time at the Major. The Major turned away. As he was leaving Bolton called after him: “Tell the old grannies that the next one we catch we’ll cut her up in pieces and put her in a sack.”

Laughter echoed after him as he made his way through the empty changing-room towards the lounge. Before he reached it O’Neill, who had hurried after him, took him by the arm and asked eagerly: “What d’you think of them? They’ll give the Shinners something