“Yes, sir,” came the answer, that sent a flash through the listener. 

 “For what?” 

 “I was going out, sir.” 

 “I want you this evening.” 

 There was a moment’s hesitation. The officer had a curious stiffness of countenance. 

 “Yes, sir,” replied the servant, in his throat. 

 “I want you tomorrow evening also—in fact, you may consider your evenings occupied, unless I give you leave.” 

 The mouth with the young moustache set close. 

 “Yes, sir,” answered the orderly, loosening his lips for a moment. 

 He again turned to the door. 

 “And why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?” 

 The orderly hesitated, then continued on his way without answering. He set the plates in a pile outside the door, took the stump of pencil from his ear, and put it in his pocket. He had been copying a verse for his sweetheart’s birthday card. He returned to finish clearing the table. The officer’s eyes were dancing, he had a little, eager smile. 

 “Why have you a piece of pencil in your ear?” he asked. 

 The orderly took his hands full of dishes. His master was standing near the great green stove, a little smile on his face, his chin thrust forward. When the young soldier saw him his heart suddenly ran hot. He felt blind. Instead of answering, he turned dazedly to the door. As he was crouching to set down the dishes, he was pitched forward by a kick from behind. The pots went in a stream down the stairs, he clung to the pillar of the banisters. And as he was rising he was kicked heavily again, and again, so that he clung sickly to the post for some moments. His master had gone swiftly into the room and closed the door. The maid-servant downstairs looked up the staircase and made a mocking face at the crockery disaster. 

 The officer’s 

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