build up a reputation. He treated war-worn veterans like Bobby
Little with immense respect, and this, too, was counted to him for
righteousness. He exercised his platoon with appalling vigour. Upon
Company route-marches he had to be embedded in some safe place in the
middle of the column; in fact, his enormous stride and pedestrian
enthusiasm would have reduced his followers to pulp. At Mess he was
mute: like a wise man, he was feeling for his feet.

But being, like Moses, slow of tongue, he provided himself with an
Aaron. Quite inadvertently, be it said. Bidden to obtain a servant for
his personal needs, he selected the only man in the Battalion whose
name he knew--Private Bogle, the _ci-devant_ painter of houses. That
friendly creature obeyed the call with alacrity. If his house-painting
was no better than his valeting, then his prospects of a "contrack"
after the War were poor indeed; but as a Mess waiter he was a joy for
ever. Despite the blood-curdling whispers of the Mess Corporal, his
natural urbanity of disposition could not be stemmed. Of the comfort
of others he was solicitous to the point of oppressiveness. A Mess
waiter's idea of efficiency as a rule is to stand woodenly at
attention in an obscure corner of the room. When called upon, he
starts forward with a jerk, and usually trips over something--probably
his own feet. Not so Private Bogle.

"Wull you try another cup o' tea, Major?" he would suggest at
breakfast to Major Wagstaffe, leaning affectionately over the back of
his chair.

"No, thank you, Bogle," Major Wagstaffe would reply gravely.

"Weel, it's cauld onyway," Bogle would rejoin, anxious to endorse his