and robbed of my gun while in a
state of insensibility, sir--upon my honour as an Alderman and Magistrate
of this borough! Swear me, sir, if you have any doubt of my veracity!" He
flapped his hands like fins, and his bandolier heaved above a labouring
bosom.

The Commander of the picket looked preternaturally grave.

"Very sorry, Private Brooker, but unless the Sergeant has brought his
Testament along, you'll have to give your information in the ordinary way.
So they drugged you or hypnotised you--or both, was it?--and took away
your rifle. Of course you saw it done?"

"No, sir, I did not see it done. When I woke up ..."

"Ah, when you woke up! Please go on."

The crowding faces of B.S.A. men and Town Guardsmen were grinning now. The
patrol-officer was rocking in his saddle.

"When I revived, sir, from the swoon or trance ..."

"Very good, Private Brooker; we'll hear the rest of that in the morning.
Sergeant, relieve these sentries, and bring Private Keyse and the hypnotic
subject before me in the morning. Make this man Brooker a prisoner at
large for the present, and fall in the picket."

The Sergeant saluted. "Very good, sir."

The bubbling Brooker boiled over frothily as the sentries were changing.

"A prisoner! Good God! do they take me for a traitor? A Magistrate ... an
Alderman, the President of the Gas Committee ..."

"I should 'ave guessed you to be that if I 'adn't 'eard it, sonny," said
the Sergeant dryly, the implied sarcasm provoking a subdued guffaw. He
added, as the visiting patrol rode on and the picket marched back to the
Cemetery: "Can't relieve you of your rifle, because you 'aven't got 'er.
What in 'Eaven's name are they goin' to do to you? Well, you'll find out
to-morrow. Left face; quick march!"

Counting left-right, and keeping elbow-touch with the next man, W. Keyse
got in a whisper:

"I say, Sergeant, am I in for it as well as Ole Bulgy Weskit? You might as
well let me know and charnce it!"

The Sergeant answered with unfeeling indifference:

"Since you ask, I should say you was."

"That's a bit 'ard! Wot'll I git?"

"Ten to one, your skater."

"Wot is my skater?"

"Your Corporal's stripe, you suckin' innocent! Wot for? For takin' a Boer
spy pris'ner--that's wot for!"

"Cripps!" said W. Keyse, enlightened, illuminated and glowing in the
darkness. He added a moment later, in rather a depressed tone: "But it was
'im, the civilian bloke with the beard, 'oo downed the Dutchy