‘I was firing at four hundred, five hundred, and six hundred yards that morning,’ Bourne explained. ‘I took the same bottle down to the range with me, and when the detail before mine was firing I got behind a sand-hill to take a small swig to steady myself. Just as I got the bottle out, Mr Clinton came round, and saw it; he was firing too, you remember. “Bourne, what have you got in that bottle?” he said. “Oil, sir,” I replied. “That’s the very thing I want,” he said. “Well, sir,” I said, “here’s a piece of four by two ready, and, wait a bit, sir, here’s a clean piece, as well.” – “Thanks awfully, Bourne,” he said; and when he had sauntered off I drank that rum so quickly I nearly swallowed the bottle with it. I fired quite well: got seventeen at four hundred, eighteen at five hundred, and seventeen at six: top scores at each range, and I got my crossed guns with a couple of points to spare. Well, sir, I think I had better go to kip.’

‘We had all better go to kip, but you can have another tot of rum before you go. Now you all know what I think about Bourne. He has never asked a favour of me, and when Sergeant Trent and I took him out meaning to get him canned up and generally make a fool of him, he drank us both to a standstill. You didn’t leave us there, Bourne, to get out of the mess we had made for ourselves as best we could, while you went back by train. You got us back with considerable difficulty, and you put us safely into kip, and you had the laugh on us, and you forgot it. Well, I think you are a bloody good sport. Good night, Bourne; good night, Sergeant.’

‘Thanks awfully, sir,’ said the embarrassed Bourne. ‘Good night, sir. Good night, all.’

As he was going, the storekeeper handed him his cooker casually.

‘Thanks, good night, Thompson; see you tomorrow, at Méaulte. Mind that tent-rope, Sergeant. Here, give me your arm.’

‘You know, Bourne, ol’ chap,’ said the sergeant, who was a little unsteady in speech as well as in gait, but very solemn. ‘That wash a lie you tol’ that offisher.’

‘I’m afraid it was, Sergeant. It touches my conscience sometimes; and I pinched some of his whiskey, too, up the line the other night.’

‘I wouldn’t ’a’ believed it of you, Bourne. I really wouldn’t ’a’ believed it o’ you if you ’adn’t tol’ me yo’sel’.’

Bourne managed to deposit the sergeant in his place without making any undue disturbance in the tent. Then he undressed, pulled up his blanket, and smoked another cigarette. It was a lie, he admitted cynically to himself; but not being exactly a free agent in the army, he wondered how far the moral problem was involved. Every man had a minimum of self-will, and when an external discipline encroached on it, there was no saying what might happen as a result. When he had finished his cigarette he turned over and slept without a dream.