unaware of any interruption. Elsewhere have the kindly personality and
eccentricities of Captain Richard Bargrave been described; "but that," as
Kipling says, "is another story."

Presently the papers were cast aside, the bowed shoulders in the
splendidly-cut blue-serge uniform squared back in the chair, and Redmond
found himself being scrutinized intently by the all-familiar bronzed old
aristocratic countenance, with its sweeping fair moustache.
Involuntarily he stiffened, though his eyes, momentarily overpowered by
the intensity of that keen gaze, strayed to the level of his superior's
breast and focussed themselves upon two campaign ribbons there,
"North-West Rebellion" and "Ashantee" decorations.

Suddenly the thin, high, cultured voice addressed
him--whimsically--sarcastic but not altogether unkindly:

"The Sergeant-Major"--the gold-rimmed pince-nez were swung to an
elevation indicating that individual and the fair moustache was twirled
pensively--"the Sergeant-Major reports that--er--for the past six months
you have been conducting yourself around the Post with fair average"--the
suave tones hardened--"that you have wisely refrained from indulging your
youthful fancies in any more such--er--dam-fool antics, Sir, as
characterized your merry but brief career at the Gleichen detachment,
so--er--I have decided to give you another chance. I have here"--he
fumbled through some papers--"a request from Sergeant Slavin for another
man at Davidsburg. I am transferring you there. Slavin--er--damn the
man! damn the man! what's wrong with him, Sergeant-Major? . . . Two men
have I sent him in as many months, and both of 'em, after a few days
there, on some flimsy pretext or another, applied for transfers to other
detachments. Good men, too. If this occurs again--damme!"--he glared at