and then there'd be a star or two; and the smoke from the chimneys
going all grey; and a little cold wind going up and down like the
bats; and all the colour going out of things; and the woods looking
all strange, and a wonderful quiet in them, and a mist coming up from
the stream. It's a queer time that. It's always about that time, the
way I see it: the end of the evening in the long days, and a star or
two, and me and my girl going home.

``Wouldn't you like to talk about things for a bit the way you
remember them?''

``Oh, no, Sergeant,'' said the other, ``you go on. You do bring it all
back so.''

``I used to bring her home,'' the Sergeant said, ``to her father's
house. Her father was keeper there, and they had a house in the wood.
A fine house with queer old tiles on it, and a lot of large friendly
dogs. I knew them all by name, same as they knew me. I used to walk
home then along the side of the wood. The owls would be about; you
could hear them yelling. They'd float out of the wood like, sometimes:
all large and white.''

``I knows them,'' said the Private.

``I saw a fox once so close I could nearly touch him, walking like he
was on velvet. He just slipped out of the wood.''

``Cunning old brute,'' said the Private.

``That's the time to be out,'' said the Sergeant. ``Ten o'clock on a