Mallett rose to leave.

"I won't promise to write often, Sir John. I expect that we shall
be generally on the move, perhaps without tents of any kind, and to
write on one's knee, seated round a bivouac fire, with a dozen
fellows all laughing and talking round, would be a hopeless task;
but if at any time we are halted at a place where writing is
possible, I will certainly do so. I have but few friends in
England--at any rate, only men, who never think of expecting a
letter. And as you are among my very oldest and dearest friends, it
will be a pleasure for me to let you know how I am getting on, and
to be sure that you will feel an interest in my doings."

There was a warm goodbye, and all went to the door for a few last
words. Frank's portmanteau was already in the dog cart, for he had
arranged to drive straight from Greendale to Chippenham, where he
would dine at an hotel and then go on by the mail to Exeter.

It was three o'clock when he drove into the barracks there. Early
as the hour was, the troops were already up and busy. Wagons were
being loaded, the long lines of windows were all lighted up, and in
every room men could be seen moving about. He drove across the
barrack yard to his own quarters, left his portmanteau there, and
then walked to the mess room. As he had expected, he found several
officers there.

"Ah, Mallett, there you are. You are the last in; the others all
turned up by the evening train, but we thought that as you were
comparatively near you would come on by the mail."