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was evident that I was not their type but they regarded me with friendly curiosity. They were going no further than Peshawar but knew a good deal about the regiments there. When they asked me the name of my unit, I said that I thought it would be the Berkshires.
    â€œJock” and “Frank” made grimaces and sounds of approval. Jock went so far as to shake me by the hand. The Berkshires, he assured me, were as fine bunch of fellows as ever lived. It would be “rather a lark” fighting alongside them.
    â€œI came out here straight from Cambridge,” Jock added with an ingratiating grin. “I was only up for a year. I can’t say I did much work there and it seemed rather a waste of time. My father thought so as well—after all, the bills come pretty steep at Kings and he was footing them, poor old fellow. So here I am, as the poet says.”
    Captain Sellon stared at these two without comment. They looked the sort of expensively educated young mutts whom Holmes once said could talk and could think but unfortunately could not do both at the same time. I thought it would do no harm to toss them a scrap of biography.
    â€œI was posted out to the 109th Albion Fusiliers originally, then the Northumberlands, but it seems both are already suited.”
    There was an exchange of looks between them, just as if I had made a bad joke. What on earth had I said? I waited for them to tell me. Jock and Sellon merely stared at me; but Frank, a rather slight youth with dark curly hair, smiled.
    â€œThen I daresay you won’t mind a change to the Berkshires. What? I should think anybody would. Eh?”
    They spoke as if we were all sharing a secret. I had better know the truth of it.
    â€œI’m sure the Berkshires will prove a fine regiment.”
    â€œRather,” said fair-haired Jock. Captain Sellon now turned and stared out through the window as if to avoid discussing the matter. But his two lieutenants had not an ounce of discretion between them. They were plainly itching to impart some scandal to see how I would take it.
    â€œWhereas the 109th …” I began.
    Sellon turned from the window.
    â€œWhat do you know about the 109th? The Albion Fusiliers?”
    â€œNothing, in so many words.”
    Frank and Jock began to laugh, whether at my curiosity or stupidity I cannot say.
    â€œIf you have not heard,” said Sellon, without a trace of a smile, “you must be the only man from Mitchni to Mooltan who has not. Perhaps that is for the best.”
    â€œHeard what?”
    Jock could not quite resist the chance. He gave a chuckle.
    â€œThe subalterns’ court-martial in the 109th. That was a ripe one!”
    For whatever reason, Captain Sellon favoured him with a full-faced glare. Jock was grinning too hard to notice.
    â€œI have just come from regimental surgeon’s training at Aldershot,” I said firmly. “All this is new to me. What on earth is a subalterns’ court-martial?”
    The two lieutenants jostled each other a little and smiled politely. Captain Sellon intervened accusingly, as if I should have known better.
    â€œA wholesome way of teaching a fellow manners, sir. I cannot condone it, but it may sometimes be the only way to avoid a regimental scandal. It is a court made up of junior officers to try a defendant privately. Let us leave it there.”
    I found it odd that Sellon should be so touchy while Jock and Frank could hardly contain themselves. They had no wish to leave it there!
    â€œPrivately?” I asked.
    â€œMess jackets and medals at midnight,” said Frank with a helpful grin.
    Sellon waved him aside. He proved to be the authority, but I noticed that he blushed a little as he spoke.
    â€œSeveral years ago, doctor, there was a new young fellow in my brigade who thought himself a bit above the other lieutenants. He liked to swank and insisted on wearing a medal ribbon given for native Indian service. Not a British