"I doot he'll be a prisoner," suggests the faithful Mucklewame to the
Transport Sergeant.

"Aye," assents the Transport Sergeant bitterly; "he'll be a prisoner.
No doot he'll try to pass himself off as an officer, for to get better
quarters!"

(The Transport Sergeant, in whose memory certain enormities of Dunshie
had rankled ever since that versatile individual had abandoned the
veterinary profession, owing to the most excusable intervention of
a pack-mule's off hind leg, was not far out in his surmise, as
subsequent history may some day reveal. But the telling of that story
is still a long way off.)

Company Sergeant-Major Pumpherston is now Sergeant-Major of the
Battalion. Mucklewame is a corporal in his old company. Private Tosh
was "offered a stripe," too, but declined, because the invitation
did not include Private Cosh, who, owing to a regrettable lapse not
unconnected with the rum ration, had been omitted from the Honours'
List. Consequently these two grim veterans remain undecorated, but
they are objects of great veneration among the recently joined for all
that.

So you see us once more in harness, falling into the collar with
energy, if not fervour. We no longer regard War with the least
enthusiasm: we have seen It, face to face. Our sole purpose now is to
screw our sturdy followers up to the requisite pitch of efficiency,
and keep them remorselessly at that standard until the dawn of
triumphant and abiding peace.