The next morning, a Sunday, broke bright and clear. Contrary to his
usual habit, the Brigade Major took a stroll in the garden before
breakfast. The first object which caught his eye, as he came down
the back-door steps, was the figure of the Staff Captain, brooding
pensively over a large crater, close to the hedge. The Brigade Major
joined him.
"I wonder if that was there yesterday!" he observed, referring to the
crater.
"Couldn't have been," growled the Staff Captain. "We walked to the
house along this very hedge. No craters then!"
"True!" agreed the Brigade Major amiably. He turned and surveyed the
garden. "That lawn looks a bit of a golf course. What lovely bunkers!"
"They appear to be quite new, too," remarked the Staff Captain
thoughtfully. "Come to breakfast!"
On their way back they found the Brigadier, the Machine-Gun Officer,
and the Padre, gazing silently upward.
"I wonder when that corner of the house got knocked off," the M.G.O.
was observing.
"Fairly recently, I should say," replied the Brigadier.
"Those marks beside your bedroom window, sir,--they look pretty
fresh!" interpolated the Padre, a sincere but somewhat tactless
Christian.
Brigade Headquarters regarded one another with dubious smiles.
"I _wonder_," began a tentative voice, "if those fellows last night
were indulging in a leg-pull--what is called in this country a
_lire-jambe_--when they assured us--"