was an untidy goods yard, littered with military stores, and peopled
by British privates in the _déshabille_ affected by the British Army
when engaged in menial tasks.

Being quite ignorant of the whereabouts of his regiment--when last
heard of they had been in trenches near Ypres--and failing to
recollect the existence of that autocratic but indispensable _genius
loci_, the R.T.O., Angus took uneasy stock of his surroundings and
wondered what to do next.

Suddenly a friendly voice at his elbow remarked--

"There's a queer lot o' bodies hereaboot, sirr."

Angus turned, to find that he was being addressed by a short, stout
private of the draft, in a kilt much too big for him.

"Indeed, that is so," he replied politely. "What is your name?"

"Peter Bogle, sirr. I am frae oot of Kirkintilloch." Evidently
gratified by the success of his conversational opening, the little man
continued--

"I would like fine for tae get a contrack oot here after the War.
This country is in a terrible state o' disrepair." Then he added
confidentially--

"I'm a hoose-painter tae a trade."

"I should not like to be that myself," replied Angus, whose early